


Irish Twins

by ZebraWallpaper



Series: Redheaded Stepchildren [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Brothers, Gen, Sibling Bonding, Siblings, reference to past abuse, reference to past rape, teenage boys
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2016-01-22
Packaged: 2018-02-24 08:05:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 206,781
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2574242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZebraWallpaper/pseuds/ZebraWallpaper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Story about Ian and Lip's relationship. Sequel to 'Redheaded Stepchildren' that picks up the story from Lip's perspective. Canon up to 4x12, not in line with Season 5/6 canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a sequel to my earlier work, ‘Redheaded Stepchildren,’ so this will probably make the most sense if you’ve already read that one. Also, while I’ve tried to do my best to keep this canon with the timeline/backstory/ages of the characters on the show, the Shameless writers’ insistence on playing so fast and loose with it all has driven me a little batty. I finally just made some decisions myself about what to stick to and went with that. Hopefully it works. Lastly, look for a lot more action (And Ian! And Mickey!) in the next chapter.

Lip doesn't remember a time before Ian existed. He knows logically that there was time—eleven months—between Lip's entrance into the world and Ian's, but not a second of it remains in his conscience. Ian has always existed. Lip has always been his older brother.

If Lip tries to recall his earliest memory of his brother, the image that comes to mind is the back seat of that rusted out Cavalier where he, Ian, and Fiona slept, piled up like puppies. Sometimes Ian got to sleep in Monica's lap 'cause he was still the baby then, but most of the time he preferred to be with his brother and sister in the back. Most of the time, Frank and Monica weren't there anyway.

Fiona had showed the boys how you could make patterns in the velour upholstery, running your finger one way, pulling a line of fibers the opposite direction from the rest. Lip and Ian spent a lot of time drawing pictures for each other in the moonlight, circles and cars and monsters all carved out in the nap then immediately brushed away to start again.

Nights when Frank and Monica had said to wait for them and to be good, Fiona would sit up in the front, watchful like a hawk for their parents' return. In the back, Lip and Ian played with the upholstery, knees on the floorboards, breath always hot and moist against each other's faces since quarters were so tight. They made up stories about what they drew—Lip's stories were always better, Ian's were usually just copies of Lip's—until Fiona would announce it was time to go to the White Hen. Then it was Lip and Ian's job to hold each other's hands while Fiona led the way down the side of 43rd under the yellow streetlights.

And they didn't let go of each other's hands until it was time to take turns using the bathroom at the White Hen while Fiona pretended to shop. But their hands locked again once it was their turn to pretend while Fiona used the bathroom, and their hands stayed locked as she led the caravan back. Sometimes Lip and Ian still continued to hold hands even after they had returned to the car and built up their nest in the back seat for the night, holding onto each other as they ventured into dreams because what else was there to hold onto?

Then at some point they started letting go more often and for longer and longer intervals, until the idea of them holding hands at all came to seem absurd. In the same way, they moved from their puppy pile in the back seat of the Cavalier to the shared bed at Aunt Ginger's to separate bunks on opposite sides of the room to different rooms with the hall between them, then to different neighborhoods and entirely unconnected worlds.

Now when Lip runs into Ian at the house on the rare occasions when they are both there, his brother might as well be a stranger. The freckles that used to map out Ian's face are mostly gone, replaced by an implacable white that Lip doesn't know how to navigate.

Lip used to know the sound of his brother's breathing at night better than he knew the sound of anything else. He used to know what it was like to mistake Ian's heartbeat for Lip's own when they were wedged up tight together. He used to know exactly what to say to get Ian to laugh, used to take great satisfaction in making that happen, even though it was an easy enough trick.

These days, Lip fears that he has no idea where the brother he knew has gone to or, worse, that Ian was never that person to begin with. It's a disconcerting thought. No longer knowing Ian is like no longer knowing the world. And if he never knew Ian, that would mean that Lip never knew anything at all.

* * *

Lip's been having the same sort of dream over and over again the last few months. In it, Ian seems to have run off again, and Lip is the only one concerned that they need to find him. Then someone (usually Fiona, but sometimes it's Debbie and one time it was fucking Kev) casually mentions that Ian died, and everyone's apparently forgotten to tell Lip.

Lip doesn't put stock in dreams—that's some fortune-telling bullshit for the same kind of idiots who need to find meaning in Hallmark cards and fairy tales about Jesus—but he can't help but be unnerved every time he wakes up from one of these. There's always a few seconds during which he believes the loss to be real, and his grief and outrage are fully felt; tonight his face is wet when he awakes.

He lays there in the dark (why do these dreams always happen deep in the night?) and contemplates texting Ian something innocuous—even an annoyed reply would be enough confirmation to make Lip feel better. But he talks himself out of it. No use waking Ian up because Lip's suddenly morphed into a pussy moron who falls to pieces the second his perfectly understandable concern about his brother's health issues manifests itself in some woefully cliché recurring dreams.

A cigarette—what Lip wants second to some tangible assurance of Ian's continued existence—would wake him up, and one of Lip's reluctant responsibilities now is getting enough sleep so that he can function at as high a level as he needs to the next day. So he's taken to sipping from a bottle of whiskey after having one of these dreams, numbing himself back to calmness like a teething baby. He knows this probably isn't the wisest solution and is fully aware that he's started to get a little dependent on it in order to get back to sleep, but it's the best idea he's got right now. And it's the quickest way to shake off the terrible rattle these dreams leave in his spine.

So he takes swigs of whiskey until he is warm and drowsy again. He promises himself as he starts drifting off that he will call Ian first thing in the morning, 'cause that's something he should probably do anyway. In the morning, the dreams (and the rattle) seem far off and abstract, though, and so he never makes that call.

* * *

It's been three months now since Lip stepped in to help Ian when he was a wreck up on the roof of their house. It's been three months since Lip used all of his persuasive abilities, flexed his bullying muscles, and finally wrung out every last drop of big brother clout he had in him to get Ian to the doctor. It's been three months since Lip sat in that exam room beside his broken brother and asked all the questions Ian didn't seem capable of asking, or of caring about asking anyway. It's been three months since that long drive home when Lip talked his throat raw just repeating all the things the doctor had said because Lip needed facts to hold onto just then and really needed Ian to stop looking like a barely reanimated corpse. It's been three months since Lip drank himself stupid that night and went to bed horrified that it was all in Ian's hands now.

It's been three months, and in that time Ian's maybe said two-dozen words to Lip.

It's not like Lip expected Ian to thank him, or something. But maybe he had expected, or maybe he had just foolishly hoped, that it might be the start of a thaw in the cold war that Ian seems convinced they're waging. Instead, not a goddamned thing has changed.

The worst part is that Lip doesn't know how to fix it either. He doesn't know how to go back in time and figure out where things started to go wrong and then stop the pistons of that engine from rising and falling once more. All the textbooks in the world have not revealed the solution or offered up any kind of formula for repair.

So Lip keeps waiting for the answer to come to him, for the one of the million sparkling little eurekas that have turned up all his life to show up now. But it doesn't come.

Lip looks at Ian and hardly recognizes that kid who, eleven months of technicality aside, has always been his twin. His stupider, sweeter, and stronger twin—for better and for ill, Ian has always been a reminder of everything Lip is and is not. If Ian goes, a part of Lip goes too. And, increasingly, Lip is starting to realize that this part just might be a vital organ. Who the fuck is Lip if he doesn't have Ian beside him?

For Christ's sake, Lip was only ever 'Lip' because tiny Ian in the back seat, with half his baby teeth coming in slightly crooked on one side, couldn't say 'Phillip.' He could only say, with much difficulty, 'Ffff-lip.' So his brother re-Christened himself 'Lip' to make it easier for Ian…

Make it easier for Ian. That's all Lip has ever tried to do. Mostly. Sometimes Lip deliberately picked on him or pushed him around—they were brothers, they were gonna get on each other's nerves—but from the minute Lip first realized that Ian didn't understand things as quickly as Lip did, didn't seem to have nearly so easy a time, Lip saw himself as Ian's protector. When it was just the three of them that was Lip's job. And then when it was the four, five, six of them, Lip's job duties expanded. But Ian was the first and the closest, and that responsibility was nearest to Lip's heart. He never took it lightly.

Lip couldn't take it lightly because, for a long time, Ian didn't seem to have any sense of self-preservation. Ian was the kind of kid who would've held hands and walked off with anybody in that Park 'n Ride lot where they camped out in the Cavalier that better part of a year. It was a source of constant anxiety for Lip and Fiona, making sure that didn't ever happen. They couldn't seem to make Ian understand that people weren't to be trusted.

That changed a little, though, when Monica first left. She'd been in an irritable mood for days, then she slapped Ian for being fussy about something and it was the first time the baby of the family had ever been hit. Ian seemed more surprised than upset, though, as if he didn't understand what it was supposed to mean. Then Monica had gotten into a terrible fight with Frank. They'd screamed and hit each other, made up and took some pills, then screamed and fought some more. Fiona had kept the boys crouched down on the other side of the Cavalier, her hands over Lips ears, his hands over Ian's ears. Monica stormed off, and when she didn't return after several days and Frank just got drunker and drunker, it became a real possibility that she might not be coming back.

Ian was inconsolable the day Fiona explained this to him. Ian cried and wailed until he made himself sick, and then he kept it up some more. Frank had been gone most of the day, and when he stumbled home to find Ian still screeching, Frank shut him up. Hard. At last, Ian seemed to understand; people weren't to be trusted.

Lip had been relieved, almost, to have a little sense and pessimism knocked into his brother's head, even if Lip wished it didn't have to transpire quite so literally. But it was a lesson to Lip too: Shit was gonna happen to Ian, whether he deserved it or not. Lip was gonna have to be ready.

* * *

Lip pushes his chair back from library cubicle desk and leans back, staring up at the brand-new LED lights recently installed as part of the school's Poly Goes Green initiative. They look ridiculous, and he's skeptical they'll really bring back the ROI the school has been crowing about. He's pretty sure they spent a gross amount of money on the lights just to appear cutting edge. It doesn't do much, in his opinion, to hip up the dated 1970s library, built when Brutalism was all the rage. But not much would, short of a wrecking ball.

His textbook has been sitting in front of him for twenty minutes now and Lip has yet to actually open it. It's one of those afternoons where he just can't get his mind to focus on what he's supposed to.

He cranes his neck so he can spy the little sliver of window over by the stacks. From the looks of it, the gray clouds have let up a bit. With a grunt of finality, he throws his book and his notes into his bag and gives up. He might as well try to see the sun for at least a few minutes today.

Outside he walks for a bit and ends up at some ugly stone bench, a gift from the Class of 1964, according to the plaque. Lip takes a seat on the gift from the Class of 1964, lights up and finds himself, before he's even fully conscious that he's doing it, dialing Fiona's cell.

"Hey, College Boy!" Fiona greets him, and Lip is now smiling despite it having been a shitty, frustrating day.

"Can you talk?" he asks, hoping he doesn't sounds as desperate as he's feeling right now. The worse the day, the more lonely it gets up here.

"Sure," she says, "Just walkin' to the El."

"How's everything? How's the kids?"

"Okay, I guess. They sent a notice home that Carl's failing Pre-Algebra. Ian's havin' a conniption. I don't know what he thinks I can do about it."

"You heard from Ian?"

"Texts."

"Ah. What's he give a shit if Carl's flunking Algebra?"

"Pre-Algebra. I think it means Carl's off the football team if he can't bring his grades up."

"Even the bench-warmers gotta have a 2.0, huh?"

"I guess. Anyway, Ian's pissed. All that work he did to get him on there, you know?"

"All right. I'll talk to Carl this week, see what I can do."

"I think you got plenty of shit to worry about. Don't need to add tutorin' back on your list of things to do."

"Nah, it's a light term," Lip lies, "I got time. I'll work somethin' out with him. How's Debs?"

"Who knows? Fine, I think. Liam's good too. Writin' his name all over everything at the house I could do without, though."

Lip laughs. A big, green crayon 'LIAM' appeared on the back of Lip's statistics textbook last time he went home. Little graffiti artist in the making.

"And how are you?" Lip asks.

"Oh, you know. Just tryin' to keep my head above water. I'm like a shark—stop swimmin', we all die."

"Think you're mixin' your metaphors there."

" _Excuse me_ , College," she teases. The sound of the announcement for an Inbound Train plays in the background, and her tone changes, "Hey, I gotta go."

"Okay."

Then the call is over and the loneliness has returned.

"Oh, I'm good, I'm fine," Lip says to no one, talking into his dead phone, "Got a reading quiz tomorrow, but it's no big deal. Actually pullin' an A in that class right now…"

He returns his phone to his pocket and sits back to smoke the last of his cigarette. But then his phone starts ringing. He takes it back out and expects to see Amanda's name, but it's Fiona again.

"Hullo?" he answers.

"Hey, I forgot to ask: How are you?"

Lip smiles. "Not much to write home about," he says. In the background on Fiona's end, he hears a CTA recording announcing a stop, but he can't make out which one it is.

"Classes and stuff—they're okay?"

"Yeah."

"Well, good. Just thought I should ask."

"Hey, Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"You, uh, you ever think about the car?" Lip closes his eyes. He doesn't know why he just asked that.

"What car?"

"The Cavalier."

"Mom and Dad's Cavalier?"

"Yeah."

"Why the hell would I want to think about that?"

"Dunno. I keep thinkin' about it lately. Not sure why."

"Do you even remember it? You were real young."

"I was four when we moved to the house. Ian and I were both four."

"Magic Month, huh?" Fiona murmurs.

Her voice has lost its cheer, and Lip regrets bringing this up. Surely, Fiona remembers much more (and much worse) than he does.

"So, what?" Fiona asks irritably, "What about it?"

Lip stubs out his cigarette. "I dunno," he says again, "I just keep thinkin' about it."

There's a pause and then Fiona gathers up some of her cheer once more and says, "Well, you've come a long way from the Park 'n Ride to Chi Poly, all right? Just focus on that."

"You think Ian remembers it much?" Lip asks, somehow unable to stop himself.

"I don't know," Fiona replies softly, "I hope not. Be nice if one of ya was too little to remember."

Another stop announcement plays behind Fiona and she says, "I gotta go, Lip."

"Sure. Talk to ya later."

"Bye."

As Lip puts away his phone, his feet start leading him back toward the dorms. He's got two hours before he has to work the dinner shift, and he really needs to read that chapter, take some notes, and start working on outlining that essay that's due next week 'cause he's not gonna have much time before then…

But when he gets to the sidewalk cutoff that will take him no place but the dorms, Lip pauses. He glances up at the clouds once more, figures it's gonna be at least an hour before the sky starts sleeting. Fuck it. He digs his hands deeper into his jacket pockets and heads in the opposite direction. He's gonna get as far away from campus as he can. For a little while, anyway.

Lip walks for twenty minutes before he finally emerges from the leafy bubble of campus and apartment buildings that house nothing but Chi Poly students and Bubble Tea places and Pita shops that cater exclusively to the rich little shits. The neighborhood beyond Chi Poly is actually pretty working class. Nicer than the Yards, but a breath of fresh air compared to the area around the university. People look normal, not perfectly outfitted from North Face or J. Crew, and they're not all exclusively twenty years old. And there's not a goddamned recumbent bike in sight.

He ducks into a corner store (the hand-drawn 'We Accept LINK' sign in the window warms his heart) and buys a pop—Strawberry Crush, the kind of thing that would never be an option on the Poly campus. He drinks it while standing on the sidewalk, leaning against the side of the storefront, watching people go by. If he squints, it could be like he's home.

The pop tastes awful, almost like he can pick out all the individual chemicals dancing on his tongue, swathed in corn syrup and red dye #40. Still, he drinks it and smiles as a little kid in a Batman costume walks by holding his mom's hand. First it makes Lip think of Casey Casden and all the grief that Debbie caused them, but then he can't help thinking of Ian, picturing him as he was when they were six and seven, a walking freckle with boundless energy and a smile that was missing several pieces

Ian loved Batman more than any other cartoon, but Lip always got to be Batman when they played because, he told Ian, "Batman is smart," and Ian couldn't argue with that rationale. Instead, Ian would have to be the Joker, but Ian hated being the Joker, hated being on the wrong side. He kept trying to make the Joker turn good and see the error of his ways, and this violation of the rules of Batman annoyed Lip to no end. "You're not doing it right," he'd tell Ian, "We're not gonna play if you're not gonna do it right." So Ian would reluctantly do his best to be bad. Ian sucked at being bad, though. So they'd give up on playing Batman and play guns. It was hard to fuck up playing guns since there was no dumb sense of morality to get in the way. Guns were guns and even stupid, sweet Ian could get behind that.

And now Lip's back to being depressed again. He tosses the remainder of the pop in a garbage can and starts trudging back toward campus.

Lip's never been one to be apologetic about being a bossy shit. Most of the time it was necessary—there wasn't exactly a surfeit of other folks around stepping up to take charge—but even when it wasn't, so what? If people didn't like Lip being bossy, they could've grown some balls and said as much. But he didn't always have to take that opportunity. It wouldn't have killed him to have let Ian be Batman once in a while. Fiona had certainly said as much to Lip at the time.

Lip walks past a guy in a denim jacket just then who reeks of BO and, of course, his mind turns to Frank. Fucking Frank. And then because he can't seem to stop thinking about it lately, Lip's remembering that last night in the Cavalier.

It was miserably cold that night, had been for days, and all four of them were scrunched together in the back seat, trying to get warm. It had been a week, maybe, since the battery finally died, and there hadn't been any heat since then. And Ian was sick because he always seemed to be sick during that period, like he'd caught one cold and hadn't been able to shake it. Everything seemed to be coming together into one nightmare knot Lip didn't know how they could untangle. He held Ian's hand and he pushed in closer to Fiona.

Lip had been surprised that Frank stayed with them that night. At first, Lip read this charitably, but then he figured out that this probably just meant Frank had finally run out of money and favors. So then it made it worse that Frank was there with them.

First, Frank encouraged them to sing songs to keep warm, but they didn't know any of the songs he tried to sing ("You guys don't know 'Hotel California'? What the hell's wrong with you?"). Then Frank insisted they pile up all their clothes and belongings into a wall around them to keep out the chill. But the chill was inside too and three underfed little kids weren't that great at generating excess body heat. And it was getting hard to breathe surrounded by all that stuff. Plus, their breath made things damp, and it seemed to make Ian's coughing that much worse.

"All right," Frank finally said, "Forget this noise. Get your stuff and come on."

They scrambled to shove their belongings into the endless grocery bags Monica had hoarded before she split, and then they hurried to follow Frank as he led the way out of the Park 'n Ride.

"Shouldn't we lock the car?" Fiona asked.

"Forget it," Frank waved off the only home his kids had known for seven months, "We're not coming back."

Lip had felt both frightened and triumphant. Frank finally had a plan that included them.

They walked for ages. Lip's hands and toes went numb from the cold, and Frank even consented to carrying Ian for a while because his exhausted stumbling was holding them up. Lip felt  jealous when Frank scooped Ian off his feet, but Fiona had given Lip a cautious smile, and Lip decided not to complain. He also decided not to voice his suspicion that Frank's plan was actually just to walk all night to keep warm until the stores opened in the morning and they could loiter someplace inside.

This wasn't the case, though. Frank did eventually lead them to a street of dark little houses and up the front steps of a blue one on the corner.

"Whose house is this?" Lip asked, not really wanting to but feeling like somebody had to ask.

"Your Aunt's."

"Who's our aunt?"

"Never mind. Just look pathetic. Try to look like Dickensian street urchins."

"I don't know what that is," Fiona said, panicked.

"Just try to look tired and cold and hungry, all right?" Frank snapped, banging on the front door, "Shouldn't be too hard."

Frank banged again and then again a little bit later, refusing to budge until eventually a light came on inside and they heard someone turning the locks.

"Ginger!" Frank cheered as an old woman opened the door just wide enough to see out.

"The hell are you doing here?" she asked.

"Thought it was time you met the kids."

"Go away, Frank."

Ginger started to slam the door, but Frank stopped it with his foot.

"Listen," Frank said, his entire tone changing to something much more pathetic, "There was some mix-up with Com-Ed. I paid the bill, but they're saying they never received it. Shut the electric off over at our place, and now we've got no heat. And of course, I can't get a hold of anybody over there. Twenty-four hour hotline, my ass."

Ginger made a face and said, "You got electric heat? That's no good. You gotta have gas heat. Electric's too expensive."

"That's what I always say," Frank said in a chummy, conspiratorial tone, "But it's the landlord's choice. What're you gonna do?"

"Hmm," Ginger agreed reluctantly, seeming then to remember her dislike for Frank, "Well, you can't stay here. I told you—never again."

"Come on, Ginger, just for tonight? I'll go over to Com-Ed first thing in the morning and get everything straightened out."

"No. No, Frank. Now, go away."

"Please? Fiona's been crying her eyes out all night, she's so cold. And, and Ian—" Frank paused, then scooped Ian back up and held him up to Ginger the way a priest holds a crucifix to a vampire, "He's sick as a dog. I don't want him getting worse. Kid's like fuckin' Tiny Tim."

Ginger peered at Ian who, miserable and snot-faced as he was, still had those Bambi eyes that always got strangers to offer him treats and ask him if he needed help finding his mother. Nobody could ever resist those eyes. Lip could see them doing their best on Ginger, her reserve wavering.

Frank could see it too. "Isn't he the spitting image of Clayton?" he asked, pushing harder, "You were always so good to Clay and I when we were kids. Had a real soft spot for him, didn't ya?"

Ginger smiled then. "How is Clayton? He was always such a nice boy."

"Don't know," Frank said quickly, "Haven't seen him in years. He's too good for his failure of a brother now."

"Yeah, well, that's true," Ginger murmured, and Lip got the impression that Ginger wasn't exactly all there.

"Where's Monica?" she asked then, and Lip felt like she's slapped them.

But Frank saw it as an opportunity to lay it on thick. "Oh, she left us," he says, his voice full of woe, "Couldn't handle the pressure of three kids. Wanted to live a free-wheelin' life with no responsibilities. Left me with the three of them, took all our money. Here I am, a single father, tryin' to raise three growing kids on minimum wage. Got a bad back, but can't let that stop me. I got them to worry about, you know? Just trying to look after them, raise them right…"

Ginger was still looking at Ian, who was leaning back against Fiona now, eyes closed as Fiona stroked his hair away from his hot forehead. Worried that their secret weapon was losing its effectiveness, Lip willed Ian to open his eyes. And, as if psychically receiving Lip's nudge, Ian did. He turned his big, green eyes up at Ginger, looking for all the world like a Precious Moments figurine.

"All right," Ginger finally gave in, "But just for tonight. You've got to be out in the morning. Patrick's coming by to fix the back steps and he won't like it if he sees you here."

Somehow all the kids knew not to cheer, but Lip and Fiona were certainly celebrating their good fortune inwardly, exchanging secret smiles as Ginger led them into the house. There were two twin beds available and the couch. Frank claimed one of the beds right away. Fiona insisted the boys take the other bed and she took the couch.

It felt odd leaving Fiona all alone on the strange couch, but she insisted, putting on a brave face. Lip held Ian's hand as Ginger led them upstairs to a dark room crammed full of junk, including a narrow bed with sheets on it that smelled like mildew. Lip's uneasiness lessened a good deal as they settled onto the bed, the first real bed they had slept on in months.

Ian couldn't remember anything before the Cavalier, but Lip did remember, so very faintly, a bed at Uncle Nick's that the three of them had shared and a sleeping bag they shared at Monica's friend Amy's house, which wasn't so much her house as a house in which Amy was squatting and allowed Monica's family to briefly camp out in. Years later, Lip would be silently devastated when he and Debbie went searching for Ian and found that their brother had been living in a squat that looked just like the one Lip remembered. Seeing Ian's kit bag in that place, Lip's name stenciled on it, a shudder had traveled down his body.

But that first night at Aunt Ginger's house was still magic in Lip's memory. For a few years, Lip had looked back at that event, at Frank getting them out of the freezing car and into a real bed in a real house, as the one time Frank came through for them. It was the one bit of proof that Frank wasn't entirely a bad father, that he actually gave a shit about their wellbeing. Then, of course, Lip got a little older, got burned by Frank a few dozen more times, and he started to realize that this wasn't the one time when Frank put the kids first and came through for them. This was just one of many times that Frank wanted something for himself and saw that he could use the kids to get it.

Lip didn't know that then, though. All Lip knew was that the lumpy, mildew-stinking bed was heavenly.

Ian was too sick to appreciate it. He took Lip's hand and spooned against him automatically, just like they always had in the car. Lip knew that getting close to a sick person and breathing was how you transferred cold germs, and he didn't want to get sick. But he also didn't want Ian to be scared; that was more important. So Lip cuddled up to Ian tight and breathed in the germs as deep as he could just to spite them.

The next day Frank finagled another night out of Ginger and it turned out to be a wild night—the adults partying downstairs while Fiona and Lip played Go Fish and luxuriated on the bed upstairs, taking turns giving Ian sips of Fruit Punch when he was awake. The next morning, Aunt Ginger "went to Wisconsin," and they never saw her again. Kindly enough, she left Frank in charge of her house while she was away. "The Gallaghers have finally had a stroke of luck," Frank enthused as he scrubbed dirt off his hands in the kitchen sink.

"Jesus Fucking Christ," Lip mutters now as he shakes the memory off and approaches the library once more. He's got about forty minutes until he needs to report for work and he could probably manage to read the chapter and take some good notes in that time if he really focused.

In his pocket, though, he finds his hand clasping his phone. He wants to call Ian, just to hear his voice, check how he is, maybe even ask if he remembers anything at all about the rusted out Cavalier, the pictures in the upholstery.

But then annoyance surges up inside of Lip. He drops the phone back in his pocket and charges full force into the library.

Fuck Ian. And fuck Frank. And fuck Monica. Fuck them all.

Lip's gotta study.


	2. Socks on the Doorknobs

Lip wakes up to his cell ringing, though it takes him a moment to understand what the sound is. Everyone always pretty much just texts him unless they're knowingly trying to wake him. So once Lip understands what that stupid ringtone means, his immediate reaction is dread.

"What is it?" he answers, not even taking the time to check the ID.

"Lip?"

"Ian? What the fuck time is it?"

"Little after six thirty. You at the house?"

Lip sits up on his elbow and realizes that he's in his old bed, not the dorm. Slowly, the memory of last night, of dinner with Debbie and Carl, arguing with Carl about his Pre-Algebra homework, trying and failing to fix the washing machine, comes back to him.

"Yeah," he says, rubbing his eye with his free hand, "What's up?"

"You got that car?"

"Yeah."

"Think you can give me a ride to work?"

"What the fuck time is it?" Lip asks again, forgetting he has already asked this.

"Hey, never mind," Ian says, "I'll figure it out. Sorry I woke you—"

"No, no, man," Lip says, sitting up fully now, a little warning bell going off in his sluggish mind—when was the last time Ian even asked him for a favor? "I can give you a lift. You at…home?"

Lip doesn't know if he'll ever be able to get used to thinking of the Milkovich house as Ian's  _home_. Or if Lip will ever be able to mention it without unconsciously taking on a slightly judgmental tone. Ian doesn't bristle at it this time, though, like he usually does. Lip gets the impression that Ian's distressed about something, despite his cool tone, and the warning bell starts ringing a little louder.

"Yeah…" Ian says, his voice trailing off as he covers the phone or lowers it from his ear and says something to someone else that Lip can't make out. Then Ian's voice comes back clearly, "You don't mind?"

"Course not," Lip replies firmly, "I'll be there in five."

"Thanks."

"Yeah."

Lip ends the call and pulls on his clothes from yesterday. He's missing his morning cigarette acutely as he throws his books and papers back into his bag, but he doesn't have time for it now. Without quite realizing it, he's glided into crisis mode (yellow alert level, or something, not quite orange or red) and moves with speed and purpose. He slips out of the house without waking anyone and gets into Amanda's car, noting that it's gotten late enough in the year that it's still almost dark out, which doesn't make him feel any less apprehensive. In his experience, nothing good ever happens during this blue-gray hour.

This apprehension turns into full-blown anxiety (orange alert) as he turns off of Wallace Street and sees what looks like smoke in the general area of the Milkovich house. Turning onto the next street over from Zemansky, it is definitely smoke (orangey-red alert). Then his stomach drops out as he turns onto their block and sees a fire truck and two cop cars in front of their house. Red fuckin' alert.

"Shit," he mutters as he pulls over across the street and a little ways down from the house. He immediately picks up on the fact that the cops and firefighters all seem to be milling around, not exactly rushing. This is some comfort. The black plume of smoke rising from behind the house and the vaguely toxic stench are not quite as reassuring, though.

Mickey's talking to one of the cops, Mickey's hands moving in all sorts of gesticulations as he speaks. There's also Russian whores and random neighbors everywhere, in various states of undress, and Mickey's kid, whatever the fuck his name is, is wailing while Mickey's wife ( _ex-wife_ , Lip reminds himself, _ex-wife_ ) tries unsuccessfully to soothe the baby.

Lip catches sight of Ian then, standing calmly beside the fire truck in nothing but his boxer shorts.

"Oh, hey," Ian says as Lip walks into his line of vision.

" _Hey_? What the fuck is all this?"

Ian shrugs. "Somebody set a car on fire in the alley."

"Shit."

"Yeah." Ian watches the firemen dragging the long hose to the truck, its white, flat form like a giant, lazy snake making its way back from behind the house. Then Ian give Lip the kind of bright, false expression he used to reserve for kind strangers and says, "Thanks for giving me a ride. I'd be really late if I had to take the train at this point."

Lip manages to stop himself from commenting that Ian's nuts for being concerned about his dumb job at a time like this. Instead he keeps his mouth shut and just stands there idiotically while Ian steps over to Mickey.

"Lip's giving me a ride to work, all right?" Ian says as Mickey turns away from the cop.

Mickey notices Lip for the first time and scowls. Then he asks Ian, "You all right?"

"Yeah," Ian replies, "You all right?"

"Right as fuckin' rain," Mickey says, then he adds, "Put some clothes on before you go, huh? Stop givin' the world a free show."

Once more Lip has to use self-control to keep his remarks to himself and his facial expression blank. Every time he gets some little reminder of the intimacy of his brother's relationship with Mickey Milkovich, it makes his hackles raise. Lip considers himself pretty fine with the whole gay thing at this point, but he doesn't think he'll ever be fine with the fact that Ian chose Mickey to shack up with. Lip has never even liked Mickey, let alone trusted him. It makes Lip deeply uncomfortable that Ian trusts Mickey and trusts him with everything: his heart, his health, his finances, his whole fucking life. Lip doesn't see any way that this doesn't eventually go very, very wrong.

Ian smiles and, like he's living in fucking Lakeview, lets his hand trail across the back of Mickey's shoulders as Mickey returns his attention to the cop and Ian heads toward the house.

Mickey's wife ( _ex-wife_ ) stops Ian en route, however, thrusting the screaming baby into his arms.

"You fix baby," she commands, "I get clothes."

Lip finally lights his first cigarette of the morning as he settles his weight onto one side and watches Ian do his baby whisperer act. It works, of course. It's always worked, even when Ian was thirteen and Liam was colicky as shit. After Ian does a bit of jiggling and cooing, the baby gives up his protest and settles quietly against Ian's chest. It really is a shame that some chick isn't gonna get to have Ian as her baby daddy; he's practically been in training for it most of his life.

Mickey's wife returns with Ian's clothes and boots and, Lip notes with amusement, his winter coat, even though the weather's still too warm for it.

Ian trades her the baby for it all, then follows Lip over to the car. Lip gets in and starts the heater while Ian stands outside and steps into his olive drab uniform pants before he gets in. He pulls on his undershirt once he's in the passenger seat but leaves his coat and his uniform shirt in his lap.

Lip lets the heater continue to warm up for a moment and savors his cigarette. He's just about to put the car into drive when Ian asks, "Can I bum one of those off you?"

"Thought you quit," Lip says, remembering how self-righteous Ian had been about it.

"Come on," Ian says tiredly.

Lip slips another Marlboro Red out of the pack and hands it to Ian, then holds his own cigarette between his lips as he takes out his lighter.

As Ian leans forward so Lip can light his cigarette, Lip notices that Ian's hands are shaking. Somehow, this makes Lip feel more magnanimous.

"You all right?" Lip asks as he steers them away from the curb.

Ian nods. "It was right outside the room where Yevgeny was sleeping," he explains, "Could've blown out the windows with the heat. Or, fuck, what if the fuel tank exploded before the fire department got here?"

"Shit," Lip agrees. He glances over at Ian, but Ian's gazing out the window. Lip returns his eyes to the road, navigating them swiftly toward the expressway. This time of morning it should be faster than taking the regular streets.

"I told you this would happen," Lip says as they cruise up the entrance ramp and merge, blissfully clear of traffic.

"Huh?"

"Everybody knows about you two now. You think this is fuckin' Sesame Street? All these mouth-breathers around here are just gonna be totally cool with Ernie fuckin' Bert up the ass in the house down the street?"

Ian takes another drag and eyes Lip like he's amused by him.

Lip shrugs and repeats, "Told you."

"This wasn't a gay thing," Ian says.

Lip raises his eyebrows and gives Ian a look, but deigns not to say anything.

"It wasn't," Ian continues, his tone implying that Lip is the stupid one now, "It was a gang retaliation. Had nothing to do with us."

"Oh, yeah? How do you figure that?"

Ian rolls his eyes, and he says, "Well, One: nobody in our house is in a gang. Two: it was a goddamned 2014 Lexus SUV with tinted windows and pimped out rims. Three: they didn't write 'Die Fags Die' on the windshield. Pretty sure it wasn't meant for us."

"Then why the fuck was it behind your house?"

"We got the vacant lot beside us, the el tracks, and no garage. Cops said it's the perfect spot to dump a car and set it on fire."

"Terrific," Lip mutters, not entirely convinced, though he's slightly relieved by the prospect. He hopes to hell Ian's not shitting him about any of it. Still, what's to stop something like this happening again in far less 'random' circumstances? The thought's been gnawing at Lip for months, and this whole fiasco has just made it that much more real a possibility.

Ian fixes his eyes out his window and they smoke and drive in silence. It's a quick ride up to the exit for Chi Poly. Ian stubs out his cigarette in an empty coffee cup and starts putting on his boots as they get off the expressway and begin the slow crawl through local traffic toward campus.

"Sorry I woke you up," Ian apologizes again.

"S'okay. Got an early class anyway," Lip lies.

"I woulda just been late," Ian explains, "But I got a meeting with the board that oversees Facilities and Custodial."

"You in trouble?"

"Don't think so."

"Up for promotion? Senior Mop Boy? Lead Vomit Sawdust Technician?"

Ian ignores him and slips into his uniform shirt, folding his arms every which way to maneuver in the tight space.

"Too early in the morning for jokes, huh?" Lip asks.

"Maybe," Ian replies.

Lip glances over at him and notices that his uniform shirt now includes an embroidered 'Ian' on the breast pocket.

Ian sees him looking and explains, "Svetlana did that. Apparently she knows embroidery."

"You got a pretty twisted domestic situation, you know that? Does she pack you lunch too? You all sleep together in one big bed?"

Ian says nothing and tightens his bootlaces like he's preparing to storm the beaches of Normandy, not empty garbage bins and distribute urinal cakes for the next eight hours.

They reach the campus gates and Ian taps the armrest. "This is good," he says.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Lip pulls up to the curb, and Ian gets out. Ian gives him a quick wave through the window, then he strides up the lawn in the general direction of the facilities building.

Lip watches his brother go until he passes behind a cropping of evergreens and is no longer visible. Then Lip lights another cigarette and begins the tedious process of trying to find a parking spot somewhere remotely close to the dorms.

As he heads back into traffic and starts keeping watch for the elusive non-driveway/non-fire hydrant/non-permit spot, he puts on the stereo. Amanda's music comes blaring out. She doesn't listen to the kind of music Lip had expected—none of that Basic Bitch crap. Instead she's really into New Wave and Post-Punk and weird shit from the 80s. Usually, it irritates him—all its arty wailing and droning and synthesizers—but right now he doesn't care; he just doesn't want to think.

He's onto the third New Order song when he finally finds a spot to wedge himself into. Inside the dorm, he checks his mail (two more notes from fraternities trying to lure him to join to raise their collective GPA), and heads up to his room. When he unlocks the door, however, he's surprised to find Amanda standing on his bed updating his wall schedule.

"Hey," he says. He doesn't bother asking what she's doing or how she got in. It doesn't matter. She does what she wants, and he's given up on having any kind of control over that. Or at least he's trying to.

"What are you doing back so early?" she asks, turning from the schedule with three different colored Sharpies in her hand. She's got her stupid glasses on. They're unattractive, but Lip has come to find them so fucking hot because all he ever wants to do when he sees them is tear them off her. Their removal is like Pavlov's bell, signaling that something really good is about to be delivered.

"Somebody set a car on fire outside my brother's house," Lip hears himself saying. All he can see, though, are those glasses and the outline of her tits underneath her sweater. She's not wearing a bra.

"Wouldn't burning a cross on his lawn have been easier?" she asks, "And more symbolically effective?"

Lip shakes his head, salivating in anticipation of that bell ringing. "He says it wasn't a gay thing," he whispers wetly, "Says it was a gang thing."

Amanda snorts. "Your brother's in a gang?"

"No," Lip says, his voice almost inaudible, "He just lives in a shitty neighborhood."

Amanda caps each one of the markers slowly and purposefully before tossing them onto the floor. Then she removes her glasses, sets them on the desk and tilts her head, indicating the wall schedule. "So this is bonus time," she says, "Are we gonna fuck or you wanna talk about your brother some more?"

"Fuck," he sighs and steps toward her.

She pulls her sweater over her head, causing her hair to fly out in a static halo, and before the cashmere has even touched the floor, Lip is biting at her nipples. Amanda yanks his smelly t-shirt off of him and starts on his fly.

Lip forgets about his family and all their endless problems and all the burning cars and broken washing machines and past due electric bills down on the Southside. He forgets about everything but Amanda and how good he feels inside her. Afterwards, he passes out, content and exhausted, until Amanda wakes him again for his first class with a slap to side of his head and a cheerful, "Onward, Christian solider!"

Lip throws his legs over the side of the bed and notices groggily that Kuz is back.

"Last day of the week, man," Kuz greets him.

Lip watches Amanda loading Kuz's books into his backpack for him. Lip will never understand how she has time to do all these things for both of them and still keeps up her 4.0, her sorority activities, her excavations into all the seedier sides of life that will drive her parents batty.

"Your sister texted," Amanda remarks.

Lip picks his phone up off the floor and reads the message from Fiona:

_Electricity's off. Any ideas?_

He tells himself he's not going to respond. And he doesn't. He changes his clothes, loads up his bag, and heads out to class.

In the elevator, however, he relents and texts back:

_I'll figure it out. Don't worry._

Just once he'd like to receive that text instead of sending it.

* * *

Lip is sitting in the dorm room with Kuz after their last class around five when there's a tentative knock at the door. It can't be Amanda—she never knocks tentatively—so Lip lets Kuz get it since Amanda is the only person who ever comes to see Lip.

"Uh, is Lip here?"

Lip looks up to see Ian in the doorway.

"Hey," Lip greets him. To Kuz he says, "This is my brother."

"Oh, hey, man," Kuz says, taking Ian's hand, "Nice to meet you."

Ian gives him a slight smile, then takes just one step into the room.

"You got a couple bucks I can borrow for the train?" Ian says to Lip, "I left my wallet and my phone at the house this morning."

"Hmm," Lip muses, taking out his wallet. He comes up empty. "Carl cleaned me out yesterday," he apologizes, "And I don't get paid again 'til Monday. You got a couple bucks, Kuz?"

Kuz shakes his head. "I don't carry cash."

Ian holds up a hand in apology. "It's okay," he says, stepping back toward the hall, "Don't worry about it."

"No," Lip says, rising to his feet, "How the hell you gonna get home?"

"I'll figure something out. Just walk if I have to."

Lip puts his arm behind Ian and guides him back into the room. Ian allows this, though he looks embarrassed.

"Listen," Lip says, "Amanda's coming over in a bit. I'll ask her for some cash or, better yet, see if I can take her car and drive you home."

"Man, you'll miss the party," Kuz says.

"You got a party to go to?" Ian steps back toward the door again.

Jesus, when did Ian get so damn timid about intruding on Lip's life? Lip wants to throttle Ian for making it seem like some great big deal to borrow a couple bucks or get a ride. It never used to be like this.

"It's not important," Lip says firmly, practically shoving Ian toward his bed, "Just hang out a bit and when Amanda comes, we'll get you home."

Ian sits on the bed with his elbows on his knees and knots his hands together, clearly trying to feign ease. He looks completely out of place in his uniform, though, and he's still carrying that useless winter coat over his arm. Somehow he just seems too big to be a third occupant in the tiny room. Ian the elephant.

Lip tries to return his attention to the notes he was going over before Ian arrived, but everything just feels off now. Even Kuz seems to sense this; he's doing a very bad job of pretending to be interested in his email and not at all distracted by Ian's awkward presence.

No one says anything for a bit until Ian puts on a conversational tone and asks, "Do you guys do that thing with the socks on the doorknobs?"

Kuz and Lip look at each other puzzled. Then Kuz laughs, getting it. "Oh, like when we've got a chick in here?"

"Yeah," Ian says, his ears going red. Lip wonders how it is possible that Ian is eighteen. He seems at once twelve and forty.

"Nah, man," Kuz laughs again, "I don't think anybody really does that. Nobody 'round here anyway."

"What do you do, then?" Ian asks.

"Try not to look," Lip deadpans.

"Yeah," Kuz agrees, "And put on your headphones."

The awkwardness momentarily covered up, Kuz uses the opportunity to escape.

"I gotta take a piss," he says and shuffles off to the bathroom.

Lip continues trying to focus on his notes and Ian continues trying to pretend that he's not utterly ill at ease invading his brother's life. He sets his coat aside on the bed and sits back a little, stretching his legs out into the narrow space between the beds. He drums his fingers on his thigh and takes in the details of the space. This is Lip's second year in the dorms at Poly and the first time Ian's ever been inside his room.

"Can I use your phone?" Ian asks eventually, "Should call Mickey and let him know I'm gonna be late."

"He keeps pretty tight tabs on you, huh?" Lip asks as he tosses Ian the phone.

Ian gives him a look. He toys with the phone for a few seconds, then hands it back. "I'll get home when I get home," he says.

Lip smirks. It has always been so easy to get Ian's goat.

Then, as if Ian knows exactly how to get retaliation, his eyes wander over to the bedside table where they land on Lip's Macbook Pro. It was a birthday present from Amanda and Lip's been too embarrassed to bring it home and let the family see.

"Nice computer," Ian says. He runs his hand over the smooth aluminum, pops it open and admires the backlit keyboard.

"It gets the job done," Lip says, hoping to downplay it.

"School give that to you?"

Lip hesitates before he responds because he can't quite tell if Ian's being a dick because it's obviously an extravagant gift from Amanda just like Lip used to give Ian a hard time about accepting from Kash, or if Ian is genuinely naïve enough about college that he thinks it involves the school just giving you a twenty-five hundred dollar laptop. Or maybe Ian thinks that's what college is  _for Lip_. Ian's always seemed to envision Lip's life as just a series of gifts continuously handed to him.

"Birthday present from Amanda, actually," Lip admits, bracing himself.

But Ian doesn't appear interested in giving him a hard time. "Cool," he says, closing the laptop and setting it carefully back on the table, "What is that, like, six, seven hundred bucks?"

"Something like that."

"Sweet arrangement you got going on."

Lip smiles and says again, "It gets the job done."

Ian slouches down lower and gives no indication that he's heard Lip's joke.

"You used to think I was funny," Lip comments, going over to the window and cracking it so he can have a smoke.

That, at last, gets a smile and a little sniff of humor out of Ian.

"I'm serious," Lip says as sits on top of the desk and lights up, "Did I just stop being funny or did you just lose your sense of humor?"

"Sorry," Ian says as he puts his head back and heaves a full-body sigh, "It's been a long day."

"Yeah, I bet." Lip holds his engineering notes in his lap and pages through them as he smokes. Living in the dorms, he's gotten pretty skilled at tuning things out and learning to snatch moments of concentration when he can. He loses himself, going back over the calculations his professor had mapped out on the board this afternoon, imagining their real life equivalents. He forgets that Ian is even here and, for a while, it's like they are back in their old room, sharing the space companionably, but each off in his own thoughts.

Then they both startle back to reality as someone pounds on the door.

"That would be Amanda," Lip explains and hops up to let her in.

She bustles in carrying several jumbo bags of Doritos and chucks them unceremoniously onto Kuz's bed. Then she catches sight of Ian and her face lights up.

"Hey, hot brother," she says.

"Uh, hey," Ian replies.

"You coming to the party too? That's great."

"No," Lip answers for him, "Actually, I need to get him home. Can I take your car?"

"Oh, come on," Amanda sneers, "You're totally just doing this so you can skip out on another party. I worked it into your schedule already. You have no excuse."

Lip frowns and glances at the schedule taped up on the wall. Amanda has indeed blocked out the rest of Friday night for 'Socializing/Being Normal' as well as two hours tomorrow morning for 'Hangover Recovery.' Damn.

"Just running him down home. I'm not even going in," Lip says, "Half the people won't even be here yet by the time I get back."

Amanda groans and says, "It's never just a quick trip home. There's gonna be some dumb family crisis, or, you know, like  _five_ , and you'll have to rush in and save everybody, and I won't see you 'til Sunday night. Not to mention it's going to completely throw off your schedule  _again_  if you're down there this weekend. And every paper you write when you're home is total crap. And you were just there last night. Come  _on_."

Lip just sucks the last bit of his cigarette as nonchalantly as possible and doesn't say anything because she's absolutely right, as she always is, but he's not going to give her the satisfaction.

"Are you gonna help me carry in the rest of this stuff?" Amanda demands to know, "Or do I have to do  _that_  by myself too?"

Lip stubs out his cigarette and reaches for his shoes as Amanda heads back out.

While Lip ties his laces, he glances over at Ian. He's leaning back to read the wall schedule, no discernable expression on his face.

Then Ian says, "She keeps pretty tight tabs on you, huh?"

"Fuck off," Lip mutters.

Ian grins. Apparently, he still finds his own jokes funny.

Down at the car, Lip helps Amanda unload bags of party food while she coordinates with what seems like forty-eight sorority sisters on her phone. He's still annoyed with her for getting him so exactly, but he also feels a little bit bad. This party is one she's been directly involved in planning and he assured her at least twice this week that he was coming. But she's right; if he does go home, he probably won't be back until Monday. The Gallagher house is a fucking vortex. As a boyfriend, Lip's been sucking royally at being around for a lot of the social stuff.

When Lip returns to the room, hauling several liters of Diet Coke and two economy-sized jugs of Captain Morgan's, Ian's reclined fully on the bed, his hands laced over his chest.

"Don't get too comfy," Lip says as he sets the bottles on Kuz's desk.

"Listen," Ian says, "Why don't you just stay for the stupid party? For, like, an hour, or something? You'll get your good boyfriend points, and by then she'll be caught up in everything, and she won't even notice if you head out."

Lip has to admit this sounds like a reasonable plan. It's not like Amanda clings to him at parties anyway—she's way more interested in talking to other people. Lip's just a prop that she can point to. An important prop that she values having, but a prop nonetheless. It does impress him a little to find that Ian's still good at figuring out how to play people. He's always had a pretty solid manipulative side, but it's been a while since Lip witnessed him making use of it.

"What about you?" Lip asks, "You're already later than you would've been."

"It's not a big deal. Mickey won't be home 'til late anyway and I don't need to watch Yevgeny tonight. Reisa's got him."

Just as Lip's trying to remember if he ever knew who Reisa was, Amanda comes in carrying about a dozen more plastic bags full of crap.

"So, you're coming to the party, right?" she says to Ian.

"Sounds like fun," he replies.

"Give him a shirt," she instructs Lip, "Otherwise everyone's gonna expect him to clean up after them."

Then she tosses one of the bags to Ian and commands, "Make yourself useful."

"Is it somebody's birthday?" Ian asks, pulling out a roll of masking tape and a couple loosely coiled rolls of used crepe paper streamers.

"Yeah," Amanda replies.

"Whose?"

"Doesn't matter," both Lip and Amanda say.

"Fair enough," Ian says, accepting the t-shirt Lip gives him. He starts unbuttoning his uniform shirt as Lip and Amanda head back out to drag up more party supplies.

* * *

The thing about the party is, once it gets going, Lip really doesn't want to leave. Driving down to the Southside in Friday night traffic, sullen brother in tow, being reminded of all the endless unsolvable problems down there, inevitably getting sucked into some kind of drama…none of that sounds remotely appealing. Especially when you've got drunken, barely clothed college girls to appreciate and drinking games designed by some of the brightest students in the world.

Fiona's been texting him further info after having talked to the Com-Ed billing department, laying out the different payment options they offered, none of which are remotely feasible. But at the party, the biggest problem is that somebody needs to do a run for more Solo cups. Texting back once more, " _I'll figure it out_ ," Lip tucks his phone into the drawer beside his bed. Just for tonight—just for a little bit of tonight—Lip doesn't want to deal with it.

And Lip feels better about this because Ian, despite a shy start, also seems to be having a good time. In his borrowed t-shirt, he fits in a lot better amongst all these other kids his age and seems to have found a home with the rich bitches from down the hall who squealed when they recognized 'the cute janitor.' Why not let Ian be a weird little celebrity tonight? Sure, he's probably drinking more than he should, but who the fuck is Lip to say anything about that? It's Friday night, Ian's an adult, and God knows the guy could use a little loosening up.

Lip loosens up too. He feels the tightness in his shoulders release and finds himself babbling about an assigned article he'd read on string theory. That's one of the surprising benefits of Chi Poly: Lip doesn't have to hide his enthusiasm for the nerdy stuff. He doesn't have to try and explain it to anybody either. They all know what he's talking about and can easily keep up. Sometimes it feels like he's talking to a bunch of other Lips and, as narcissistic as he realizes it may be, he genuinely enjoys it. It's hard work pretending to be dumber than you really are all the time, and it's a relief to not have to do that here.

Lip keeps an eye on Ian throughout, though, wanting to make sure his brother doesn't get talked into a corner by one of the super geeks and end up embarrassing himself. They seem to take a lot of pleasure in ganging up on those they suspect to be intellectually inferior. Lip doesn't have to worry about this, however; from what Lip can tell, Ian's the fucking life of the party.

Ian could always party as hard as the rest of the Gallagher clan, but he was also sort of a quiet partier, content to let others dominate the scene. Somewhere along the way, though, he seems to have picked up some social skills—maybe while tending bar?—and Lip's impressed and amused by how well Ian's managed to chameleon himself into all these wealthy smart kids and come off as charming. Is this new or has this just been what Ian's like when he's not around his family? It's kind of fascinating. Lip makes a mental note to describe it to Fiona—she'd be interested to learn this too—but then one of Amanda's sorority sisters (a cute one Lip's had a minor thing for) starts talking to Lip, and he immediately forgets all about Ian's mysterious charm and telling Fiona about it.

Somehow, a couple hours get away from Lip, then a couple more. The drunker Lip gets, the less he cares about keeping tabs on Ian. He sees his brother dancing at one point, grinding up against some chick while the rich bitches (and is that Kuz?) cheer them on. Then later he comes across Ian giggling like an idiot while one of the rich bitches snorts coke off of The Unabridged William Shakespeare in front of him. The thought passes through Lip's mind that there's no way that chick would share her coke with him—rich kids are way less generous than poor kids when it comes to sharing drugs—and that's enough to allow Lip to forget about it. Instead, he finds Amanda and they fuck standing up in somebody's dark dorm room he's never been inside before. There is a poster of Che Guevara staring down at him the entire time and it cracks Lip up as he slams his hot fucking girlfriend into the wall again and again beneath the revolutionary's judgmental gaze.

Cocky and triumphant post-lay, Lip struts down the hall and happens upon Ian in somebody's room where they've set up a crazy series of beakers and tubes, ball bearings in tracks, weights and pulleys and levers that delivers beer from a keg at one end to an open tube at the other. It's not quite clear what it is because the container is tinted, but some other liquid gets added along the way. It's the kind of thing the engineering students revel in building just because.

A group of students is crammed into the room, watching while Ian and some dude call out numbers and roll dice to see who takes another drink from the end of the tube.

Ian loses for what appears to be not the first time, and the crowd hoots as he makes he way over to the contraption, lies down on his back and positions the tube over his mouth. Then his partner drops a ball bearing down a track and a series of Mouse-Trap-like devices set off until Ian gets a generous mouthful and everybody cheers.

Ian climbs slightly unsteadily to his feet as he swallows and accepts their applause. He notices Lip then and says, "It's probability!" Then Ian laughs and adds, "I really am the unluckiest guy in the world!"

Lip looks at Ian's dice partner skeptically, not remembering his name, but recognizing him from another party, then turns back to Ian.

"Have you won once?" Lip asks.

Ian shakes his head, still laughing a little. He's flushed and very drunk.

"You're playing probability games with a fuckin' math major, you idiot," Lip informs him, "It's got nothing to do with luck."

"You should play him," Ian says merrily. Then he turns to the spectators and informs them that, "Lip's a genius."

Lip pushes Ian out of the way with some frustration and squats down across from the other kid. Briefly, the kid explains the rules of the game and Lip nods. Ian wobbles beside him.

The kid rolls the dice and calls out "Seven" as Lip calls out "Nine." Then Lip rolls the dice, calling out "One" while the kid calls out "Two." Then they each roll one of the die and come up with a total of eleven.

"Shit," Lip mutters as the spectators laugh. So much for his attempt to teach this jackass to pick on someone his own brain-size.

Lip gets himself into position with the tube over his mouth and tries to prepare, but he ends up almost choking as he receives a lot more liquid than anticipated and it burns his throat. He stumbles to his feet, wiping the excess from his chin and hisses at Ian, "What is that, a fuckin' boilermaker?"

"I think so," Ian says, "I've had, like, six."

"Five," the dice kid corrects him.

"Five," Ian repeats. Then he laughs and hugs Lip and Lip doesn't remember the last time he saw his brother smiling so genuinely. Despite Lip's embarrassment at not exactly being able to avenge his brother's honor, Lip feels a surge of pride at having been able to give this to Ian tonight. Some part of Lip wants so badly to see Ian happy again. He's been sad for so long.

Lip claps Ian's back and says, "I think as a general rule, Gallaghers should avoid dice games, okay?"

Ian steps back from the hug and gives him a strange smile that Lip can't interpret. Then Ian bends down and fucking kisses Lip on the forehead, like he's goddamned Liam, or something.

Ian continues smiling that weird smile, then he says, "Chubby little baby Frank."

Lip stares as Ian turns and, listing to one side a bit, heads out of the room and back to the rest of the party.

Lip continues to stand there in shock. "My chubby little baby Frank" was what Monica used to call Lip when they were little and she was in a particularly affectionate mood. Lip was by no definition a chubby kid—he just wasn't scrawny like Fiona and Ian were—but Monica used to pinch his cheeks and call him that anyway. Lip also, when he was younger and blonder, looked a lot like Frank, which, oddly, was Lip's big selling point to his mother, who otherwise always favored Ian. Lip hasn't thought about the pet name in years, had completely forgotten about it, actually. Hearing it now brings on a whole wave of confusing emotions that Lip is absolutely in no state to deal with.

He shakes it off, though, turns back toward the other partygoers and steps over to the boilermaker contraption.

"You gonna show me how this shit works, or what?" he asks.

* * *

At three in the morning, Lip's in the middle of a mellow, stupid conversation with a kid from one of his classes when Lip stops mid-sentence.

"Anybody seen my brother?" he asks.

"I think he was making out with Hailey—the Sigma Lambda girl?"

"Yeah, no," Lip shakes his head as he climbs unsteadily to his feet, "That doesn't sound right."

"Didn't he go for a beer run? Big, fat blonde dude, right?"

"No," Lip shakes his head again, "That doesn't sound right either."

Lip stumbles into the hallway and then braces himself against the wall as he makes the rounds, checking rooms, calling out, "Ian! Hey, Ian, you dumb shit, where are you?"

When he has checked every room and found himself at the elevator again, Lip starts to get a little worried.

"Ian!" he hollers at the top of his lungs, though it gets drowned out by the music.

"Shit," he whispers. He slides down the wall until he is crouched down on the floor with his head in his hands. If anything happened to Ian…shit…shit fuck shit…

Then an idea occurs to him and he tries to stand up quickly. That doesn't work so well, though, so he compromises and gets on his hands and knees. He crawls sloppily toward the men's washroom.

He doesn't even have to call out his name—Lip sees him as soon as he pushes his way into the room. Ian's lying on the floor in one of the stalls, curled like a comma around the base of a toilet.

"Hey," Lip hisses, "You all right, Ian?"

He just gets a groan in response, but that in itself is reassuring. Lip crawls over slowly, hands squeaking against the floor, and he tries not to think about all the disgusting things that must be on this tile.

Ian opens one eye when Lip leans over him, then closes it immediately and groans again.

"I shouldn't have drunk so much," Ian whispers.

"Yeah, same here," Lip says, "You gonna throw up?"

"Already did."

"Feel better?"

"Not really."

"Okay."

"I just wanna stay right here," Ian mumbles, pressing his face harder against the tile, "It's nice and cool here."

"It's pretty gross, man."

"No, they just mopped this floor this morning. It's okay."

"Inside information, huh?"

"Please stop talking."

"Yeah," Lip says, closing his eyes in an attempt to make everything stop spinning, though it doesn't seem to help much, "That's not a bad idea."

Without really thinking about it, Lip finds himself sliding down and resting his head on Ian's hip. He only intends to stay there long enough to stop feeling dizzy, but then he passes out.

When he opens his eyes next, Kuz is bending over the both of them. "You guys okay?"

Lip pulls himself up to a sit and uses a hand to try and steady his sloshing brain.

"You weren't kidding when you said Gallaghers know how to party," Kuz says.

"I wish it was more impressive," Lip mumbles. He peers at Ian, but his brother is passed out cold. "Where's Amanda?" Lip asks.

"Left a couple hours ago. Said she wasn't gonna stick around and watch you puke on yourself."

"Probably a good call."

Lip tries to wake Ian, but he won't budge, and Kuz has to help Lip walk Ian's dead weight back to their room. They dump him on Lip's bed, then Kuz tells Lip he can go ahead and take the other bed.

Lip is puzzled for a second then understanding dawns on him. "Who you hookin' up with?" he asks.

Kuz grins. "Ashley."

"That the chick with the hair from the eighth floor?"

"Yeah."

"Nice. You been tryin' to tap that for a while, right?"

"Since Spring term."

"Well, Jesus," Lip says, "Get goin'."

After Kuz is gone, Lip runs a hand through his hair and stands there in the space between the beds. He's not really tired anymore, just a little woozy. At a loss for what else to do, Lip starts removing Ian's boots. Lip gets kicked at once in the process, but Ian doesn't really wake up. He's always slept like brick.

Once Ian's boots are removed, Lip figures there's not much more he can do for him. Lip strips himself down to his boxers and gets into Kuz's bed.

It's weird being on this side of the room—everything looks slightly different from the opposite perspective. It's also weird sharing a room with Ian again. It's been almost two years since they were still bunking together in the boys' room at the house, before Lip moved into Frank's old room, before Ian ran off to join the army, before Lip left for college, before Ian moved in with Mickey. A whole lifetime has passed in those two years.

Yet Ian still breathes exactly the same, Lip notes with a little smile to himself. For sixteen years of his life, Lip was intimately acquainted with the sound of Ian's breathing. He could read it the same way people who live by the ocean can read the tides. Lip could tell when Ian was lying awake in the dark, when he was just drifting to sleep, when he was deep in sleep, when his sleep was troubled, when he was shortly to awaken.

Lip could also—and this thought causes Lip's smile to turn into a grin—tell by the sound of Ian's breath when he was doing other things in his bed than simply lying there awake or sleeping. And Lip had no doubt that Ian could tell when Lip was doing it too. They both seemed to have hit upon the discovery at the same age of what one could do with ones dick and a little hand lotion under the covers at night. Motherfucking magical. They both also seemed to have independently come to the same conclusion that each should never point out what the other was doing and tease him about it; as long as they both pretended to be ignorant of what was happening on the other's side of the room, they were both free to churn away without fear of retaliation. It was a little like Mutually Assured Destruction, only with dicks and cum. A lot of cum. Jesus Christ, that room had reeked of cum. To this day, in fact, any time Lip catches a whiff of cum, he is immediately transported back to that musty little twin bed, fapping away while hearing Ian's breath hitch and jerk four and a half feet over.

In a strange way, though, Lip had kind of treasured those experiences. It was like brotherly bonding as they slid (one-handed?) into adulthood and adult pleasures; they were together in this, even if they never spoke directly about it. And Lip had taken great pride in crossing this threshold with his brother—he shared his best magazines, best videos, shared it all generously, trying to give Ian anything Lip thought he'd like. Ian shared what he'd collected as well, though Lip wasn't all that into it. Ian was really into big tits, and Lip wasn't that much of a big tit guy. Lip had, in his more know-it-all moments, engaged in playing a little Freud and amused himself with the thought that Ian's fixation on tits probably had to do with having been so close to Monica when he was little—some good, old fashioned Oedipal shit. Of course, Lip would figure out later that Ian's fixation on big tits was just Ian trying desperately to fake what he thought the most hetero kid in the world would be into. And big tits forever after made Lip a little depressed.

Lip remembers so clearly the moment he found Ian's real stash of porn. He remembers smiling over Ian's lovingly cut and pasted collection of tits, remembers thinking he'd happened upon Ian's secret stash of really good stuff that the selfish little shit wasn't planning on sharing. And Lip remembers his shock when he opened the folder and found out what Ian had really been hiding.

At first, Lip was confused. He thought maybe Ian was playing some sort of prank on him. Then Lip realized that, no, this really was Ian's secret stash and it was all fucking dudes, and that was what Ian liked. That was a bizarre and bewildering revelation, having to instantly re-write so many things Lip thought he knew about his brother. It also hurt. Ian had been  _lying_  to Lip, all those nights with the cum and the Vaseline Intensive Care and their shared bond. The procurement of the big titty magazines, the smirky double entendres, the shared grin and murmured comments about how hard particular videos were making them when they watched them together on the laptop…Ian had been straight-up conning him. He'd played Lip like a goddamn piano, and Lip felt like a fool. But it was also unsettling to realize how deceptive his brother had been. This wasn't the Ian that Lip always knew.

Lip had also felt weirdly hurt. Ian didn't care enough to tell his brother this enormous piece of information, despite the fact that Lip had never kept anything from Ian. Sure, Lip could understand Ian keeping this a secret from other people—they wouldn't understand—but to not tell Lip? Lip had always been Ian's biggest support in everything, and there was no one in the world he felt closer to. That had apparently meant nothing.

That sense of betrayal was stinging Lip the most when he confronted Ian. It was all Lip could think about as they shared the joint and Lip told him about how Karen Jackson had blown Lip during their tutoring session that afternoon.

Lip's anger grew into a white hot flame as Ian smiled, played along, acted like they were still in this together. Liar, liar, shitty little liar.

"I thought we told each other everything." That was what Lip had led with, easing Ian into awareness of his guilt. Then Lip had tossed the evidence at him like a courtroom lawyer on a TV show.

Ian's breath stopped cold. Lip's keenly trained ears caught that. Lip said nothing to ease Ian's nerves, though. Part of him wanted Ian to suffer. Lip watched as Ian's hand seemed to go numb, the joint dropping from his fingers to the bedspread without Ian not even appearing to be aware of it.

Ian just sat there, a breathless, colorless mute. Then he stood hastily, the folder dropping, naked men and their cocks spilling out across the bedroom floor. Without a word, Ian stepped over them and made his way to the bathroom.

Though Ian ran the water, Lip could hear his brother being sick. Lip figured it was the guilt that made Ian sick, the realization of how selfishly he'd betrayed his brother, and Lip had been somewhat satisfied by that. He'd hurt Ian a fraction of how much Ian had hurt him, and Ian was remorseful. Lip felt okay to start forgiving him after that.

Lip rescued the joint before it really singed the bedclothes and he smoked it himself as he swept up all those giant, veiny cocks, all those flexed, massive thigh muscles, all those glistening pecs.

Just as Lip got the last one safely back inside the folder, Carl leaned into the doorway, grinning because he was still at that age where bodily functions were hilarious.

"Ian's puking," Carl announced.

"Yeah," Lip agreed, "Sounds like it."

"Why?" Carl asked.

Lip shrugged. Then he took the joint from his lip and wiggled it. "Bad pot maybe," he said.

"Why aren't you puking then?"

"Some of us have stronger constitutions. More guts."

Carl seemed confused by this, but then Debbie appeared behind him in her bathrobe, looking excited.

"Fiona and Veronica brought a new guy home," she said, "We should go say hi. He's really cute!"

"You spyin' again?" Lip asked.

"He's really cute," Debbie repeated, as if that excused her eavesdropping. It had become clear already by that point that Fiona, Lip, and Ian were having little success in getting Debbie to break her less appealing habits. It would be come very clear eventually that nobody was ever going to be terribly effective at stopping Debbie from doing anything she decided she wanted to do.

"Well, go on down then," Lip said, "Say hello."

Debbie and Carl scampered down the stairs, eager to meet somebody new and to have any excuse to push off their bedtime a little longer.

Lip snuffed out the joint, pocketed it for later, and gave a quick rap on the bathroom door.

There wasn't any reply, but the door wasn't locked, so Lip let himself in. Ian was sitting on the floor with his knees bent and his arms folded over them, his head leaning against the side of the bathtub. He didn't look up.

Lip stepped forward, turned off the faucet, and said, "Fiona's got some new guy downstairs."

Ian continued to be silent, continued staring at the floor.

"Word on the street is he's pretty cute," Lip said, "Maybe if you play your cards right, he'll bang ya both."

Ian didn't lift his head, but he glowered from beneath his brow.

Lip gave a little tap of finality on the doorframe and said, "Clean yourself up and come downstairs."

Then Lip had strolled down to meet Fiona's newest lay. Lip felt fairly contented about how the confrontation had gone. He'd made his point, made Ian feel bad for keeping this from him, and now everything was out in the open. It was a good place to start the process of fixing things. Lip didn't know yet how he was going to fix things, but he was certain he'd figure something out.

It wasn't until quite recently, as Lip's become more concerned about Ian being out in their neighborhood, that Lip has thought back to that night and considered the possibility that it wasn't guilt that made Ian throw up. The massive secret Ian had been keeping for who knows how long had been found out. Ian hadn't been guilty; he'd been fucking terrified. And it was Lip who made him feel that way. Some protector.

Lip glances over at Ian, sound asleep in the other dorm bed. His arms and legs are sprawled wide, hanging off the edges of the mattress. He barely resembles the kid he was back then, curled up protectively beside the bathtub with fragile birdy shoulders.

"Hey, Ian," Lip says now, trying to wake him up, needing suddenly to hear his voice, "Ian—you awake?"

But Ian's breath does not change, and Lip returns his eyes to the acoustic tiles that make up the ceiling. In the dim dark, he can just make out the aluminum grid that holds them together, the dimpled texture of the individual squares.

Lip fell pretty quickly back into the role of protective older brother after confronting Ian that first night. It was Lip's responsibility, had been since forever because, much as Ian tried to avoid it and doggedly pursued the straight and narrow path, Ian seemed bound for trouble. Or, more precisely, trouble seemed bound for Ian. This was just the latest example. Of course Ian couldn't just be a normal kid, lusting after girls who were a pain in the ass but ultimately harmless; Ian had to get his dick hard over dudes, setting himself up for a lifetime of beat-downs and rumors and, sure, why not, possible death.

But Lip was also skeptical. Sex was weird, right? Sometimes Lip was surprised by the random shit that got him going; it didn't seem out of the realm of possibilities that Ian was just fucking confused.

The more Lip thought about this while lying in his bunk that night, listening to Ian be wide awake in the dark to the left, Carl snoring blissfully to the right, the more Lip started to think that Ian had simply been won over to the idea of being gay. Ian was always a vulnerable soul in search of an ideology, always on the lookout for a group to which he could pledge membership and instant loyalty. First it was the Cub Scouts, then the Little League, then, briefly and weirdly, a stint as an altar boy at St. Tim's, then of course, the military. Lip figured that Ian's identity as gay had less to do with biology and much more to do with some combination of a need to belong and a desire to sign his life away to the homoerotic fantasy camp that was the Marine Corps. Ian was so naïve and trusting. Probably somebody had called him a faggot, and Ian had fallen in love with the idea.

All Ian really needed to set himself straight (silently, Lip commended himself for that pun), was to have some chick's lips on his dick, like Karen Jackson had done for Lip earlier that day (fuck, that was good). There'd be no more of this nonsense once Ian had an actual chick suck his actual dick. She'd blow (good one again) those disgusting pictures of dudes from Ian's mind forever.

Then the plan started to form in Lip's head and he'd been able to sleep at last, content in the knowledge that the next day he was going to fix everything for his brother.

Lip has wondered for years now why Ian ever went along with that plan, why he ever consented to getting sucked off by Karen Jackson. For a long time, Lip took it as a sign that Ian wasn't 100% certain of the whole gay thing and could possibly still be coerced to the safer side. More recently, though, Lip's come to accept that this probably was never the case; Ian was likely quite certain of his sexuality for a while by that point. But the only answer that makes sense then, the only reason Lip can think of that Ian ever agreed to such a thing, is that he did it to make Lip happy. And the thought of that just fucking breaks Lip's heart.

It was Karen who eventually pointed out to Lip that he had his head lodged firmly up his own ass with his attempts to save Ian from himself. As they boarded up the Jackson's front window together, she pointed out that if Ian actually was gay then Lip might want to stop acting like the guys at her dad's church and start thinking about the fact that Ian was going to have a hard enough time being gay in their neighborhood without his brother adding to the pile on. Karen could be ruthlessly practical, and she had a top of the line bullshit detector. Lip had really liked that about her.

 _Karen_. Frantically, Lip returns all thoughts of her to that lead-lined box labeled 'do not think about ever' and slides it back into the safety deposit system in the furthest reaches of his brain.

She'd been right, of course. Lip left her house that afternoon and headed over to the Kash 'n Grab, determined to let Ian know that he had his brother's support. The anticipation of how grateful Ian would be, how relieved, made Lip feel pretty good.

But, then, fuck. That Pakistani pedophile and Ian's stupid Bambi-in-the-headlights face had confirmed all of Lip's worst suspicions and fears. And it had happened right under Lip's nose. Fuck fuck fuck. And fuck Ian for being so naïve and so fucking  _Ian_  and fuck that pervert for taking advantage of him just like all those other opportunistic assholes had been trying to do all Ian's short fucking life. And fuck Lip for totally fucking up and allowing this to happen. Fuck.  _Fuck_.

Lip had never failed so hard at something in his entire life and here now he'd failed at his biggest fucking responsibility. It made him ill, and it made him feel like he couldn't breathe right, but more than anything, it made him incensed.

Eventually, he was able to get control over this panic by re-directing his anger toward Ian. How the hell was Lip supposed to do his job looking out for Ian when Ian kept these things from him? Trouble had come for Ian, like always, and the fucking little idiot had gleefully knelt down and sucked trouble's dick.

By the time Ian got off work that night, Lip had pacified himself with a plan. They were going to go talk to Tony, see how they could bring this to the police without it getting out to the public, without anybody finding out that it was Ian. Lip had his speech all prepared, the individual points of cool logic he was going to present to his brother, even a patronizing reassurance that it wasn't Ian's fault, because that was probably good to have in place too.

The plan and the speech went out the window, though, when Ian came into the room. The sight of Ian in those bright, new shoes that certainly had been a "gift" from that pervert made Lip forget about being calm and reassuring. Instead, all Lip wanted to do was smack his brother over the head with the truth. Ian needed to know how stupid he was and that this was a very serious mistake but, most of all, Ian needed to know that this was on him.

"He bought them for you, didn't he?"

Lip expected Ian to deny this, but when he just acknowledged that this was true, his nonchalance made Lip lose his shit. He grabbed blindly for any weapon he could find and his hands landed, once again, on guilt.

"He's married," Lip blurted out, knowing as he said it that this would be meaningless to Ian—what the hell did marriage mean to any of them?—so Lip added, "He's got kids," because that surely would hit at one of Ian's weak spots.

Indeed, pain dashed across Ian's face at this and, encouraged, Lip found himself shouting the kicker, the one thing that would point out Ian's naïveté and just how easily he'd let himself be played:

"What else does he buy for you, Ian?"

But Ian didn't seem to get the full implication. He answered back, truculent but almost smug, "Stuff. Now and again."

Lip sputtered at this, incredulous ("You're happy with that? What's that make you, huh?") until the term he'd been trying not to say finally fell from out of his mouth:

"Fuckin' kept boy."

And that's when Ian lost it. He grabbed Lip by the collar and, with startling swiftness, slammed him into the wall. The words Ian was spitting out were ridiculous, childish justifications, but his rage was sobering. Lip had never been on the receiving end of so much bald hatred from his brother.

Lip  _had_  seen Ian direct this rage at others a handful of times, though, and had dealt with the fall-out. Ian had been a good-natured kid from day one, easy-going and passive to the point that one could believe he had no temper to speak of. But this seemed to present an irresistible challenge to some people to poke at Ian and push, push, push, amused by the novelty of so little resistance. Frank was maybe the worst offender. It wasn't that Ian didn't get angry, though; he just quietly bottled it all up. But the building pressure in those bottles had a tendency to lead to explosions.

As Ian continued gripping Lip dangerously close to his throat, he ranted on absurdly about his love for Kash and tried to argue the case against Lip saying anything to anyone. But Lip was thinking back to Kyle Boozlee, and the three pins it had taken to put his leg back together. None of them had ever found out what it was that kid said or did that drove Ian into that particular rage, but it had been a wake-up call, alerting them all to what Ian's sleeping dragon temper could lead to.

There had been talk then about the Boozlees pressing charges, talk of Ian going to juvie. Thankfully, the situation had eventually gone away, but Ian's alarming rage clearly had not. As Lip stood pinned by Ian's white-knuckled hands, Ian's eyes narrow and dark and boring into him, Lip wasn't so much sacred for himself as much as he was scared for Ian. His spindly little body didn't seem built to handle that much rage.

But Ian's grip loosened as he grew exhausted, and his anger dissipated. Lip took the opportunity to shove Ian off, not without a couple of choice comments (some bullshit about Muslim fundamentalists and gutless gay boys-Lip couldn't  _not_  say it). Lip maintained his dignity and the illusion of being unruffled, but he got out of there quickly. Sometimes the best way to save Ian from himself was to let him alone.

Lip left Ian alone all night to cool off and didn't go back to him until the next morning when he found Ian in the van looking small and harmless once more.

Lip had taken the night to cool off himself as well, and he'd come to a difficult decision. He'd decided to back off and leave Ian to make the mistakes he was so dead-set and determined to make.

Lip attempted to tease Ian first, bringing back their usual jokey goodwill. He shoved a gay porno magazine at him, made some funny crack about it, but Ian's iciness would not thaw. So Lip switched gears into serious bro mode, tried to keep it chummy and cool, tried to get Ian to tell him the rest. Lip was shocked when Ian actually did this with surprisingly little prodding.

Roger Fucking Spikey. Holy shit, Ian was telling the truth and, holy shit, Ian had been sneaking around and getting laid while Lip was still cuming into dirty tube socks. Lip was more than a little perturbed about this revelation. Mindlessly, Lip started babbling some nonsense about human biology, or some crap, retreating into logic, as he always did when he felt unmoored.

Then Ian started laughing and Lip knew there was no going back. The simple joy on Ian's face as he found a fallacy in Lip's logic (the rare occasions Ian could do this always seemed to delight him), the relief of seeing Ian happy again after all these tense days…

Lip didn't know if this was the right thing to do—he knew in his heart that in many ways it was not—but Lip chose his brother's affection over better judgment. Maybe it was selfish, but Lip knew he'd choose that laugh over all reason every time.

Ever since Lip found that manila duck blind of cut and pasted tits, things with Ian stopped ever being easy. It felt like Ian entered a world then that Lip could never understand, and Lip hasn't really known how to guide him through it. Especially once Mickey Milkovich came into the picture and brought Ian so much grief; it has killed Lip to see the pain that fucking lowlife has caused his brother. But Lip is past trying to fight that. There isn't any point. Ian falls in love with everything—Kash, the military, Mickey—too easily and too obsessively. When you have Ian's love, it is ferocious and impenetrable.

But when you lose Ian's love, that's it; it's gone. Lip knows this now firsthand.

* * *

Lip wakes up in a panic to someone pounding on the door of the room. It takes him a second to figure out why he is in the other bed, why his head is throbbing, why the sight of his own bed empty is troubling. Was that a dream that Ian was here last night? It couldn't have been…right? Just how much did he drink last night?

He stumbles to the door and notes, to his concern, that it is not locked. Lip opens it to find Fiona and Mickey standing in the hall, their coats damp with melting snow and their faces wearing similar expressions of distress.

"Where the hell have you been?" Fiona demands, slamming Lip's chest with both palms.

"I was sleeping. What the fuck?"

"You don't answer your fucking phone?" Fiona snaps, "Been trying to get a hold of you the whole night."

Lip remembers the phone tucked in the nightstand drawer, but says nothing about it. He steps out into the hall with them and rubs his eyes. "What's going on?" he asks, wondering just why the hell Mickey is here.

"Ian's missing," Mickey answers, looking stricken.

"Never came home after work last night," Fiona rushes to explain, "No call, no nothing. Tony's got a couple guys out lookin' for him. Deb's up in Boystown, Carl's—"

"Fiona—" Lip starts to interrupt her, but is in turn interrupted by Mickey.

"He ain't got his phone with him," Mickey says, "No wallet, no nothin'. Just fuckin' walked off from work and never—"

They all stop trying to talk over each other at once as the door to the men's room swings open and Ian steps out. He's not looking up as he shuffles, half-asleep, back toward Lip's room. He doesn't see them until Mickey mutters, "Aw, Jesus Christ," and runs a few steps to embrace him.

Ian stiffens in surprise as Mickey grabs him and Lip can't take his eyes of the bizarre sight. Mickey looks like he's only a moment away from tears as he squeezes Ian. "Ah, fuck," Mickey mutters, "fuck."

Mickey slowly detaches himself, having apparently remembered his audience, as Ian gives him a bewildered look and continues walking toward Fiona and Lip.

"Hey," Ian says, "What's going on?"

Fiona and Mickey's faces both take a similar journey from confusion and relief to anger.

"Fuckin'  _hey_?" Mickey sputters at him.

Fiona turns to Lip and asks, "He was here the whole time?"

"I…" Lip struggles to remember the night before and try to give at least some of the explanation that is being demanded of him, but his head is pounding so loud it's keeping him from thinking properly. "I didn't know he was missing," he says, though it sounds tiny and pathetic to his ears, "There was a party. We, you know, we just…we were partying."

Fiona slaps Lip.

"You were  _partying_?" she says and then repeats this even louder, "You were  _partying_?"

" _Fuck_.  _You_." Mickey says to Ian.

"I should've called," Ian says, having as hard a time putting words and ideas together as Lip from the sound of it, "Lip was gonna drive me home, but…you know, we were pretty drunk and then…It didn't seem like a big deal…"

"Oh, my god," Fiona mutters. She puts her hands up in the air and shakes her head in disgust.

"Didn't seem like a big deal," Mickey repeats and Lip is actually alarmed by the glare Mickey is directing at Ian.

"Debbie almost had a goddamn panic attack," Fiona informs Ian, "She was up hyperventilatin' at four in the mornin'. I hope you had a real fuckin' good time."

"Shit," Ian murmurs.

Then Fiona steps back to address Ian and Lip together. "You're both fuckin' assholes," she says.

Mickey grabs Ian's shoulder and tries to pull him toward the elevator. "Come on," Mickey says, "Lets go."

But Ian shrugs him off roughly. Now it's Ian who looks pissed.

"Just what the hell did you think happened?" Ian asks Mickey.

"What?" Mickey furrows his brow at Ian, "Though you walked off in a…in a…in a state, or somethin'."

Ian presses his lips together tight and tilts his head in frustration, as if it's taking all his control not to say something.

"Ian…" Lip cautions.

"Come on, man," Mickey says with an air of exhaustion, "What'd you expect us to think?"

"You never came home all night," Fiona says, "No word or anything. We were so worried, Ian. Thought you were out there without your phone, your wallet…who knows what—"

"So, the first thought is 'Ian must've gone nuts'?" Ian's eyes have grown dark and his shoulders have tensed up. "Don't I even get 24 hours or whatever before they start sending out the bloodhounds sniffing for a body? Or one of those wagons where they put you in a straight jacket and load you up? Isn't there some rule about 24 hours before they do any of that? Or does that not apply when your whole family thinks you're a basket case?"

"That's not fair," Fiona says softly.

"I used to stay out all night all the time. Nobody gave a shit then."

"Ian," Lip cautions, "Come on, man. You and I fucked up. It's our fault."

"If I miss the bus going to my doctor's appointment next week," Ian continues, "You gonna have them dredge the lake?"

"Ian, stop it," Fiona says.

"No," Mickey says, stepping back and shaking his head slowly, "You know what?"

Mickey reaches into the pocket of his coat and takes out Ian's phone and wallet. He shoves them into Ian's hands. Then Mickey removes a blue plastic pill organizer from another pocket and throws it at Ian.

"Come home whenever the fuck you want. Or don't come home. Go fuck yourself."

Mickey takes Fiona roughly by the elbow and snarls, "Come on. We gotta get the kids."

Fiona tosses Lip a helpless look as she allows Mickey, like an angry ad hoc husband, to lead her into the elevator. Then Ian stomps back into Lip's room and slams the door behind him.

Lip just stands there in the hallway and brings a hand to his aching head.

Apparently, you can avoid the drama on the Southside all you want, but it's only a matter of time before the Southside will just pack everything up and bring its drama to you like the world's most dogged catering service.

* * *

Lip and Ian both try to go back to sleep, but it becomes clear that this is a useless endeavor. Instead, they go to the cafeteria for breakfast.

In the elevator on the way down, Lip checks his phone, now retrieved from the drawer. He has twenty-two missed calls. Fiona. Debbie. Carl. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Fiona. Debbie. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Carl. Fiona. Mickey. Mickey. Mickey. Fiona. Mickey.

Lip doesn't listen to any of the voicemails or bother to read the texts. He tucks the phone back into his pocket and ventures a cautious look at Ian.

Ian no longer looks angry, more just tired and possibly a little contrite.

This is confirmed when Ian says, "I feel bad about Debbie."

"Yeah," Lip agrees, "But she'll get over it. She's gotta learn not to get so bent out of shape about everything."

The cafeteria is mostly empty this early on a Saturday morning, and they're able to fill their trays with no waiting. Lip loads up on pancakes and drenches them with syrup. It's all he ever wants when he's hungover. He also grabs juice and coffee.

Ian goes for one of those disgusting rectangular, brick-like slices of "omelet" but, in what Lip considers to be kind of a dick move, asks Mel the cook if he can have one made with egg whites only. Lip makes a face at him while they wait for her to cook it up and Ian gestures to a little sign that Lip's never noticed before.

"It says you can ask for substitutions," Ian points out.

"Yeah. For health reasons," Lip says, "What's your health reason?"

Ian shrugs. "I like to keep my arteries clear."

Lip scoffs. Ian's earnestness is too much sometimes.

"Well," Lip says, "I think Mel likes to do her job and not have to deal with pretentious shitheads making special requests."

Mel returns then with a fluffy genuine omelet of egg whites and bell pepper. She is beaming as she hands the plate to Ian, as if he is the most delightful person she's ever met. Lip's never seen Mel so much as crack a smile before.

"Here you go, honey," she says.

"Thanks," Ian replies with a big smile of his own, "Appreciate it."

As they walk toward the cashier, Ian continues to smile, now in amusement at Lip's indignation.

"When did you get so fuckin' charming?" Lip mutters.

The cashier knows Lip and waves him him through without Lip having to flash his work-study ID. Lip then waves Ian through himself, telling the cashier, "He's with me."

"Such a big shot," Ian comments as they make their way to a table.

"Yeah, they'll bring around the Cristal bottle service in a bit," Lip replies.

They set their trays down at a table and Lip gets busy spreading the big blob of butter, making sure to get an adequate amount on each individual pancake. But Ian doesn't sit down. Lip looks up at him.

"I gotta go use the washroom," Ian explains.

"Didn't you just go?" Lip asks, "You doing lines in there, or what?"

"No," Ian says, looking embarrassed, "I gotta take my meds."

"So? Do it here. No one gives a shit if you take some pills." Lip says this then realizes that it's not the handful of other people in the cafeteria Ian's worried about seeing him take his medicine—it's Lip. Like if Lip doesn't see him take his pills, he'll just forget that Ian has anything wrong with him. Ian really is a weirdo sometimes.

"Sit down," Lip instructs him.

Reluctantly, Ian does. Then he takes out the pill sorter from his pocket and lays down a few tablets, counting under his breath, probably double-checking something.

As Ian swallows his pills, Lip resists the temptation to ask him how the current medication regime is going. Ian clearly doesn't want to talk about it. Things seem to be fine enough anyway. Instead, Lip removes a little flask from his bag and pours a dollop of whiskey in his coffee, then he holds the flask over Ian's cup in offering.

"Ease your way out of the hangover?" Lip asks.

Ian shakes his head and takes another sip of his coffee as Lip returns the flask to his backpack.

"Might wanna be careful," Ian says, "Frank's been easing his way out of a hangover for forty years."

Lip gives him a smile, though the comparison makes Lip uneasy ( _Chubby Little Baby Frank…_ ). He shakes the thought away and takes out a textbook and some notes. Might as well start catching back up with reality again.

Lip attempts to read while he eats for a bit, but he can't concentrate well because Ian is watching him.

"What?" Lip asks, looking up.

"Nothing. Sorry," Ian says, bringing his attention back to his own food, "Just…how can you do that when you're so hungover?"

"Sorta learn to do what you have to if you wanna get through college, you know?"

Ian nods and speaks around a mouthful of egg, "I could never do that. I suck at remembering all that stuff."

Lip shrugs and looks back down at his notes. "Yeah, well, you got other talents," he says.

Lip reads on for a bit, but then fuck it. The shit'll still be here when Ian's gone. He pushes the book aside and looks to Ian expectantly.

Ian looks back at him, as if waiting for Lip to say something. But Lip's waiting for Ian to say something. And neither of them says anything and it's awful.

Then, at a loss for any other more brilliant topic, Lip starts babbling about how he's glad he's not working the breakfast shift this morning. Cleaning the syrup ladles and the sticky syrup pans is the worst, and he ends up reeking of bacon for the rest of the day. It takes two passes with the shampoo to get that stink out. This leads Lip to start bitching about cafeteria work in general, what fucking animals people are, piling up garbage on the conveyor belt with no consideration of the fact that Lip has to pluck all that garbage back off of the trays before he can separate the cutlery and the plates and spray all the food remnants down the drain. He complains about how the hot water inevitably gets inside his latex gloves and makes his hands itch all day, then transitions into how those gloves do nothing to protect his hands from getting burned when he has to take all the steaming plates out of the dish dryer. This, of course, as it always does, all circles back to how much of an anal retentive mongoloid prick Lip's boss is…

Lip cuts his rant off as he notices Ian grinning.

"What's so funny?" Lip asks.

"This is the first time you've ever had to work a real job," Ian explains, "Just funny to hear what a pussy you are about it, that's all."

"Yeah, yeah, all right," Lip admits, but he looks at Ian's stupid egg whites and bell pepper and finds himself irrationally irritated by his brother's sanctimonious breakfast choices.

"How can you eat that shit?" Lip demands to know, "You tellin' me you actually like it?"

Ian shrugs and Lip finds his annoyance growing. Where does Ian get off acting like he's some perfect human being?

"What does it matter?" Lip goads him, "You got the wife and kid, the union job, the shitty house. Time to kick back and let yourself go, right?"

Ian sips his coffee and doesn't say anything or show any reaction, so Lip pushes a little harder.

"Or does Mickey control that too?" Lip asks, "His pretty boy's gotta look a certain way?"

Ian chokes on his coffee at that and Lip smiles though he's not sure if Ian's laughing at how wrong Lip is, how right Lip is, or how patently moronic Lip is. It doesn't matter; Lip feels better. Ian's laugh, when it's genuine, has always made Lip feel better.

Ian mops coffee from his chin with the side of his hand, but the amusement drops out of his expression as he spies someone walking toward them.

Lip turns around to see who it is and finds one of the other janitors heading over with a smile.

"Gallagher!" The guy greets Ian, and for a second Lip expects them to exchange some sort of secret custodial services handshake. They don't, though.

"Hey, Percy," Ian says, "How's it going?"

"Not bad, not bad. Saturdays are all right, you know? Little shits are all hungover, stay outta your way. Get through everything a lot quicker."

Ian smiles, and Lip is offended at how easily this Percy guy makes that happen.

"Hey, this is my brother," Ian says, gesturing across the table, "He's one of the little shits here. Don't worry, though. He's hungover."

"No shit," Percy laughs and extends his hand, "Whole family's smart, huh?"

Lip accepts Percy's handshake, which is more of a sorta fist-grab, and smiles politely.

"Yeah, not  _too_  smart, though," Percy says teasingly, then he says to Lip, "You tell this guy he's crazy yet?"

"Excuse me?" Lip asks, his muscles tensing as if for a fight.

But Ian hasn't lost his good nature. "Ah," he says, waving Percy off.

Percy shakes his head in an ain't-that-a-shame fashion and says, "My wife would have my ass if I turned down that shit."

Ian laughs and says, "I haven't said no yet. Just said I'd think about it. I got a lot of stuff going on right now."

Percy continues to shake his head then leans over toward Lip and says, "Kid don't know a good thing when he sees it."

Lip smiles uncomfortably and sits there while Ian and Percy talk about some colleague of theirs, joking about more stuff Lip doesn't get, then Percy heads back to work.

After Percy's gone, Lip folds his arms and waits for Ian to fill him in. Ian seems very interested in his eggs, though, wolfing them down and carefully avoiding eye contact.

"The hell was that about?" Lip demands.

"What?" Ian asks, feigning innocence.

Lip narrows his eyes, and Ian sets down his fork in defeat.

"It's not a big deal," Ian says.

"No, must not be a big deal if Percy's fuckin' wife gives such a shit about it."

Ian takes up his coffee mug and Lip can see him weighing how and what to tell. Sometimes Lip wishes he could turn Ian upside down, shake loose all the information he holds and send it falling like spare change from his pockets.

"That meeting I had yesterday?" Ian begins.

"What meeting?"

"I told you about it."

"You did?"

Ian sips his coffee like he's forcing himself not to say what he was going to say. After he swallows, he says, "Doesn't matter."

"Well, what was the meeting about?"

"They've got a program. It's like a management training kind of thing. But you have to be nominated. They haven't nominated anybody from Custodial Services the entire time they've been doing this. Like, decades."

Even though Ian's saying this with a dismissive tone, Lip can pick out the bit of pride he's trying not to show. It reminds Lip of the time Ian won that rifleman metal in the ROTC and acted like it was no big deal. It wasn't until Lip's guidance counselor made an off-hand mention months later that Lip found out that Ian had actually been recognized as the top sharpshooter in the entire Midwest region.

Lip smiles and says, "Only you would mop floors so well people nominate you for a fuckin' prize."

He meant that warmly, but Ian seems to deflate a little. Lip's not sure why. Lip stalls for a moment, shoveling down a couple bites of pancake, then says, "So, management, huh? Why wouldn't you want to do that? Promotion means more money, right?"

Ian toys with his fork and doesn't look up from the table as he speaks. "It's not really…" he starts, then pushes a stray piece of green pepper across his plate as he struggles to put together what he wants to say. "It's like a whole program thing," he says finally, "You gotta take classes and…it's bullshit. I just wanna do my job and go home."

Lip eats some more of his pancakes as he considers how to handle this. He eyes Ian, takes in his too-thin face and his eerily mannequin-perfect hair (it must be some kind of gay super power that he can manage to keep it looking like that after the night they had) and feels torn. Just three months ago, they didn't know if Ian would be able to keep his job. A few months before that, they didn't know if Ian would be able to function well enough to get a job at all. Maybe they shouldn't press their luck.

"Yeah, well," Lip says, "What does it matter if you're king of the janitors? Like being king of the hobos, right?"

"Yeah," Ian says to his plate as he tucks the pepper neatly under the last little pile of egg, "Exactly."

Then Ian reaches across the table, stabs a piece of pancake and steals it.

"Here," Lip says, pushing his tray toward Ian, "Take the rest. I've had enough rubber cafeteria pancakes to last me a lifetime."

"Nah," Ian replies and stands up, "I better be getting home. Gotta start patching things up."

Lip watches Ian put his coat on then pat his pockets to make sure he has his phone and wallet (and pills). Suddenly, Lip can barely stand the idea of Ian going back to that house, groveling to that lowlife, taking care of his kid, handing over his paycheck to keep all those assholes in diapers and cigarettes and crack. How the fuck Ian ever decided this was anything but a raw deal, Lip will never understand. Half the time Lip suspects that Ian only tells himself he loves Mickey just to spite everybody.

"Hey, uh, no-fault divorce in Illinois is pretty cheap and easy to do," Lip blurts out, "Looked up all the stuff the night you guys got the license."

Ian glances down at him blankly.

Lip adds, "Just FYI."

Ian gives Lip a patronizing smile and a pat on the shoulder. "Thanks for breakfast," he says.

He starts to head out of the cafeteria, but Lip calls after him. "Hey, Ian!"

Ian halts and turns around. "Yeah?"

"Don't, uh…don't be a stranger, all right?"

Ian rolls his eyes at Lip's corniness and turns back on his heel. In two more seconds, he's gone.

Lip pushes away his breakfast tray and takes his book back out. He taps his pen on the tabletop and tries to concentrate, but the loneliness of that now-empty seat across the table is so loud Lip can't hear himself think.

So he retrieves the flask and strengthens up his coffee. He takes three quick swallows. It covers up the taste of impending failure and helps him to believe that it doesn't matter anyway. If it doesn't matter, it's a lot easier to not fuck up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much thanks to everyone who's been reading along so far. Your comments, kudos, and general support are so very appreciated.


	3. Gone Back to Red

On Sunday, Lip heads sheepishly to Wallace Street. He expects to find a dark house and everybody pissed at him, but instead the lights are on, the kitchen is as bright and cheery as ever and Fiona greets him warmly.

"Up for spaghetti?" she asks, lifting the lid on the pasta pot to check on the status of the water.

"Sure," he replies. He takes a seat at the counter and waits for her to chew him out, but it doesn't come.

Instead she just struggles to remove the lid off the jar of sauce and asks, "Just stayin' for dinner or stayin' over?"

"Really just came to figure out the Com-Ed situation, but it looks like I'm not needed. You blow someone in the billing department or what?"

Fiona smiles and passes him the jar with the rubber grippy pad. Most of the grip has been worn off it over the years and it's fairly useless.

Lip uses the hem of his shirt and gets the lid off with a satisfying pop.

He sets the jar on the counter, but Fiona's moved on to laying out slices of white bread on a pan and spreading them with  _I Can't Believe It's Not Butter_ and garlic salt. It does not slip by Lip's notice that she hasn't answered his question.

"How'd you get the electric back on?" He asks bluntly.

Fiona tilts her head as she slides the pan into the oven. "Ian paid the deposit," she admits.

Lip sits back and says, "That so?"

Fiona shrugs. "Think he was tryin' to make up for scarin' everybody on Friday. Then bein' a jerk about it."

"That or he wanted you guys to have all the modern conveniences of the early twentieth century."

"Probably some combination of the both," Fiona says, "Don't know what else we would've done."

Lip doesn't have an answer for that. He hasn't had an answer for days. Lately he feels like he's just burned out on ideas. He's so tired of scheming.

"Where'd he get the money?" he asks because someone has to ask.

Fiona leans back against the fridge and gestures helplessly. "Guess they're doin' all right over there."

"Hmm." Lip grunts. His phone buzzes then and he takes it out. It's a text from Mickey:

_Need to talk._

Fiona leans over the counter to read it as he holds the phone out toward her.

"What's that all about?" she asks.

"Don't know."

Lip texts back:

_I'm on Wallace. Talk now?_

"Ask him if he wants spaghetti," Fiona says, though Lip ignores her. He's not inviting Mickey Milkovich over to have fucking spaghetti.

There's a delay, then Mickey replies:

_Alibi in 5._

Lip just sits there for a moment, staring at his phone. Then he and Fiona seem to heave the same deep sigh. There's no way in hell that text means good news. The only question is how bad the bad news is going to be.

Fiona opens the freezer compartment on the fridge and takes out a half-full bottle of Seagrams Vodka and pours Lip a tumbler full.

"I'll save  _my_  drink for when you call to tell me what the crisis of the day is," she says as she slides it over to him.

Lip toasts, "To never ending shit."

* * *

Lip enters the Alibi and stands by the door, removing his gloves as he scans the room for Mickey. No Mickey, but Kev turns around from the tap and grins at the unexpected customer.

"Hey, Professor!" Kev greets him, "Home for Sunday dinner?"

Lip smiles and accepts the whiskey Kev pours for him. "Nah, I'm lookin' for Mickey, actually. He around?"

"Upstairs. In the market for a little…" Kev does a quick hand movement, but Lip cuts off Kev's sales presentation.

"No. Just need to see  _him_. Think he's coming down or do I gotta go up?" Lip asks. He's not exactly eager to have whatever conversation he needs to have with Mickey while surrounded by a bunch of middle aged sad sacks getting their cocks sucked by nasty-ass Russian whores.

Kev shrugs. "Probably be down in a few. He doesn't like to stay up there much. Mostly just hangs out down here."

"Great," Lip says, taking a seat at the bar, "I'll wait."

Lip's about three sips into his drink and Kev's boring-ass story about the twins' sleeping schedule when the front door squeaks open. Somehow Lip knows who's about to step through that door even before he sees him.  _Fucking Frank_.

Frank doesn't even notice Lip while heading to the bar and Lip doesn't greet him. Frank's got his head down and he's muttering to himself. He seems pretty drunk already but also preoccupied about something.

Lip does his best to be invisible and apparently it's a pretty good job because Frank sits down right next to him and pays no notice. Or maybe he really doesn't give any shit at all about the son he hasn't seen in months.

"Gimme a Sidecar," Frank says to Kev, still looking very distracted.

"Really?" Kev says, "Where do you think you are?"

Frank brushes Kev's annoyed disbelief away and says, "A Tom Collins, then."

Kev shakes his head and fills a glass with Budweiser from the tap.

"There's your Tom Collins," Kev says slapping the glass down in front of Frank. Then Kev stalks over to the far end of the bar, wiping his hands viciously with the towel like he can wipe all his irritation off too.

All through this transaction, Lip's been sitting stock still, following the advice from  _Jurassic Park_  that if he doesn't move, the drunken shithead dinosaur won't see him.

It works pretty well too until Frank takes a deep gulp of beer, buries his hand in his hair then turns his head to the side.

Frank blinks in uncertainty then he gives a tired smile. "Hi, Son."

"Hey," Lip says, glad at least that he's free to move now so he can get on with his drink. He takes an appreciative sip.

"Your mother's back in town," Frank says.

Lip pauses, the glass halfway between his lips and the bar. "What?"

Frank traces his finger through a ring of beer his glass has left on the worn-out polyurethane. "Saw her today. She's gone back to red."

Lip sets his glass down hard and says firmly, "I don't care."

"She misses you kids," Frank continues, "She's not doing too well."

Lip grits his teeth, but can't even bring himself to form words. He's quite certain that if he opened his mouth right now, all that would emerge would be some animalistic roar of rage.

"She wants to see you guys," Frank says.

Frank reaches for his beer glass, but Lip grabs his hand and clenches his fist around it, making Frank contort himself on his barstool and give a little squeak of pain.

"Don't you dare bring her to the house," Lip says in a low, forceful whisper, "Don't bring her anywhere near this whole fucking neighborhood."

Frank manages to yank his hand free from Lip's hold and as he rubs it, he says, "She's your mother. She has a right to see you."

"No she doesn't," Lip says, shaking his head, "She lost that right a long time ago."

Frank grimaces and, using his good hand, picks up his glass. "You can't speak for your brothers and sisters," he says, "Debbie and Carl would love to see her. They're not warped and bitter like you, festering in years old resentments and petty, childish bile."

Lip slams his palms down onto the bar. "Are you out of your fuckin' mind?" he hisses, "Debbie and Carl have just started to believe, just started to have a tiny glimmer of fuckin' hope, that Ian's capable of having a half-way normal life, that bein' bipolar doesn't have to mean he's gonna end up a fuckin' lunatic like that bitch. And you wanna just bring her back now? Exhibit fuckin' A of every last goddamn thing they've got to be scared about? You think this is a joke?"

Frank waves away Lip's anger and says condescendingly, "Knowledge is healthy. You can't protect children from the cold realities of life. Makes 'em soft."

Then Franks snorts with fake amusement, "That's probably what happened to your brother."

"You stupid fuck," Lip mutters, shaking his head.

"You know," Frank says brightly, "That's not a bad idea. Ian should see her. He seems to be doing all right—maybe he could help her out. Probably have a lot to talk about…"

Lip is rendered speechless at the horror of this thought.

But from behind him, Lip hears someone say, "You bring that crazy cunt anywhere near Ian, and I'll cut your balls off, all right?"

Lip turns to see Mickey standing behind him, looking utterly casual as he vows to remove his father-in-law's testicles.

"What a lovely, lovely greeting," Frank says.

"We clear?" Mickey says calmly, "You or that bitch go anywhere near him and you'll be bringin' your nuts to the hospital in a Ziploc. He don't need that shit right now."

Frank rolls his eyes but doesn't say anything, which is the closest he'll ever come to admitting defeat.

Satisfied, Mickey inclines his head toward Lip. "You got a minute?"

"Yup," Lip says, sliding off his stool and taking his drink with him. He's never been so glad to see Mickey in his life.

Lip follows Mickey into the back storeroom where all the beer gets delivered and refrains from making a crack about how he thought Mickey's office was the bathroom, like the Fonz.

Mickey takes a seat on a keg and, gingerly, Lip sits down on one across from him.

"What's goin' on?" Lip asks, trying to get straight to the point and rip the Band-Aid off quick.

Mickey hesitates.

"What's wrong with Ian?" Lip asks, "Just tell me. I need to know. You can't pussyfoot around this shit."

"Nothing's wrong with Ian," Mickey replies, appearing almost offended by the assumption, "Ian's fine. Ian's good. This is about you and me."

Lip blinks in surprise. "What?"

Mickey points from himself to Lip and back. "You and me," he says, "We gotta get together. You got some time this week when we can get a beer, or somethin'?"

Lip smirks. "You asking me out on a date?"

"Naw, man, come on," Mickey rubs the back on his neck in agitation, "This is somethin' we gotta do."

"Why?"

Mickey bites his lip. Then he bows his head slightly and rubs his neck again. "Ian's shrink thinks it's a good idea."

"So this is Ian's idea?" Lip asks. Ian is such a passive-aggressive pussy sometimes, sending Mickey to do his dirty work.

"No," Mickey says, scowling emphatically, "Ian doesn't know shit about this."

Lip sits back and takes this all in for a moment. He doesn't know what Mickey's game is here—the guy's an incomprehensible moron a lot of the time—but Lip knows that it can't be good that Mickey's trying to do stuff that Ian doesn't know about. Lip needs to play this carefully, but the idea that there is all of this stuff going on behind the scenes in Ian's life that Lip is not privy to but Mickey is pisses Lip off. Lip can't help himself and ends up just being blunt:

"Why the hell are you makin' plans with his shrink behind his back?"

Mickey looks like he's just been accused of child murder. "I'm not makin' fuckin' plans, dipshit," he says, "And it ain't behind his back."

"Then why is his shrink calling you? Why isn't he calling me? I'm his brother."

"I'm his fuckin' husband."

"Right," Lip says sarcastically, "Yeah. Forgot that."

"And she's not callin' me, all right? That shit's all private, between her and him."

"Then how are you guys having these little conversations, huh?"

Mickey puts his head back and says to the ceiling, "Christ, you are such an asshole."

Lip holds his free hand out, showing that it's still empty of an explanation. Then he sips his whiskey while Mickey takes a moment to cool off and start again. Lip imagines that Mickey must be furiously rubbing his two brain cells together, trying to get the fire to light once more.

"So Ian goes and sees his chick up at the hospital, all right?" Mickey says, as if explaining this to a very stupid child, "And sometimes, she tells him to bring me with."

"What? Like couples counseling? You guys haven't even been hitched a year yet, and you're already at that point?"

"No," Mickey snaps, "It's not fuckin' couples counseling. It's his regular therapy shit, and sometimes he's gotta bring me with. I don't know why. I don't ask. But I go 'cause I give a shit about him, and I give a shit about him gettin' through this. I'm tryin' to talk to you now 'cause I figure you give a shit about him too. But, hey, maybe I'm wrong. He gives a shit about you, though. I don't know  _why_. But it matters to him, so I'm tryin' to make this fuckin' work, and you're not fuckin' helpin' at all."

Lip sits back, chastened. "I do give a shit," he says quietly.

"Well, then act like it, all right?"

Lip starts to say something peevish—he just can't stand  _Mickey_  lecturing  _him_ —but he stops himself. Instead, he finishes off his drink then asks, "So, what's the deal?"

Mickey sighs. He looks at the filthy stockroom floor as he explains, "The deal is, it really bothers Ian that you and I don't get on too hot. His shrink says it's like, uh, like a stress thing. Like, a stress point or a stress factor, or somethin'."

"Like a trigger?"

"Maybe. I don't think she said that, though. It's more like…he's got a lotta things in his life eatin' at him, and her whole deal is that if there's some of these things he can make better or get rid of, he should do it, 'cause there's a lotta other shit he can't do anything about. That make sense?"

"Yeah," Lip says, feeling shocked that Ian's shrink has identified Lip as one of the things making Ian's life harder than it needs to be. Lip doesn't like the thought that Ian would ever feel that way about him. He wants to ask Mickey if Ian even defended him at all, argued that Lip wasn't the aggravation the therapist was characterizing him as, but that seems petty to ask. And maybe it was Ian's idea in the first place. That's a disconcerting thought. How deep down the rabbit hole must Ian be if he thinks Lip's a problem?

"So, anyway," Mickey continues, "She said it would be good if you and I got it all on the table…you know, cleared the air, or whatever. Smoked the peace pipe."

Lip nods, trying not to let on what total bullshit he thinks this is. Hearing stuff like this just confirms his belief that therapy's a lot of Dr. Phil nonsense. Nobody acts like therapists think they do, just coming together for heart-to-hearts, sharing a Coke at the local soda fountain. The real world doesn't work like that, and Lip resents Ian spending good money to have some rich bitch with a Mercedes and a degree in pseudo-science try to convince him that it does.

"But Ian said that wasn't ever gonna happen," Mickey goes on, "Said that was impossible. I didn't say nothin' 'cause I try to just let him do the talkin' at these things and not say nothin' if nobody asks me. And nobody did. But I got to thinkin'…why's that gotta be impossible? You ain't stupid. I ain't stupid. We both give a shit about him, right?"

Lip tilts the glass in his hand, watching the one last drop slide achingly slow from one side of the circular glass bottom to the other, becoming a line instead of a drop. He wishes he could just talk to Ian directly. Why does Mickey have to be the intermediary on this? Why's Ian got to be such a goddamn coward if he's got such a problem with Lip? Why does Lip always have to go through Mickey these days?

"Why isn't Ian here with you?" Lip asks, "If this is your big plan to make him happy, why aren't you telling him about it?"

Mickey folds his arms in a defensive posture. "Cause I don't know if this is gonna work," he says, "And I don't want him to know about it if it turns out to be a shitshow. What good does that do?"

Lip doesn't think it's gonna work either, but he's offended by the implication that he can't be civil. And that he gives less of a shit about Ian than this jackass does. Why the hell did Lip even come down here today? He should've stayed up at school and worked on his essay. He could be enjoying some nice celebratory post-first-draft sex with Amanda right now. Why does he keep letting himself get drawn back to this shithole and everybody's never-ending complaints about him?

"So, are we doin' this or what, man?" Mickey asks. "I gotta get back upstairs."

"Fine," Lip sighs, "When you wanna do it?"

Mickey takes out his phone and pulls up a calendar app. Lip can see the dates filled with multiple colored boxes.

"You serious?" Lip says, "Your pimpin' schedule's that full?"

"I got a lot of irons in the fire," Mickey says as he scrolls through the week, "How do  _you_  keep your shit straight?"

Lip holds his tongue and takes out his own phone, pulls up the schedule Amanda has synched with the paper one on his wall. It looks remarkably similar to Mickey's schedule, actually, in terms of busyness and color coordination. After a strained minute or two of negotiation, they settle on a time and place to meet later that week.

"Nice doin' business with you," Lip says as Mickey gets up to go.

"Go suck a dick," Mickey replies as he leaves the storeroom.

"Thought that was your department," Lip says, but there's no one there to appreciate his joke. But it really wasn't that great anyway. Even Lip thinks he sounds like an asshole.

* * *

Once he's settled onto the train, heading back up toward school, Lip calls up Fiona.

"You can leave the vodka in the freezer," he says, "False alarm."

"Is it bad if I say it's too late?"

Lip gives a little sniff of amusement that he doesn't really feel.

"So, what was that all about then?" Fiona asks.

Lip sighs, trying to come up with some good way to explain it. He wants to tell her about how Ian's therapist is making Lip out to be some kind of a monster and how Mickey's supporting the idea, and Ian's apparently believing it…Lip wants to tell Fiona because he wants her sympathy and he wants reassurance that she's on his side, but the idea is still too hurtful to put into words.

"Lip? What'd Mickey want?"

"Uh," Lip switches the phone to his other ear and glances at his reflection in the dark window, "He wants to hang out with me. We're gonna play some pool this week."

Fiona barks a laugh. "What, like a playdate?"

"It's not a playdate. I'm not Liam."

"Well, then, what is it? A man date? A bro fest?"

"It's not anything, all right? He just wants to get a couple drinks and clear the air."

"Huh," Fiona muses and all of the teasing drops out of her voice, "That's not a bad idea."

"What?"

"Well, I mean, you and Mickey are kinda…I bet it'd make Ian a lot happier if you got along better."

"What the fuck?" Lip snaps, "So I don't like Mickey. I got very good reasons to not like Mickey. We all do."

"Yeah, but, he's not goin' anywhere. And it's not exactly pleasant when the two of ya are in the same room together. I can't imagine what Ian must feel—"

"Ian's gotta grow up and stop expectin' everybody to baby him. The world isn't gonna bend over to accommodate all his fuckin' issues. He better learn that quick"

Neither of them says anything, and Lip feels a little twinge of regret at what he's said. He didn't mean it to come out quite so harsh.

Then Fiona asks timidly, "So, Ian asked Mickey to hang out with you?"

"No," Lip sighs, "Don't say anything about it to Ian. He doesn't know. This is all Mickey's idea."

"That's kinda sweet."

"No, it's kinda fuckin' manipulative."

"What?"

There's exasperation in Fiona's voice, but Lip doesn't care. "You know Ian's therapist is tryin' to turn him against us?" he says.

"Oh, come on…"

"It's true. She's feedin' him all sorts of bullshit about how we're not any good for him, and he's gotta either change us or cut us out. And you better believe Mickey's right there noddin' his head."

"That doesn't make any sense. Why would Mickey—"

"I gotta go. It's my stop," Lip says and ends the call.

Lip's shaking as he sits there and he crosses his arms tight to try and stop it. He's furious at everyone right now.

And, shit. He forgot to tell Fiona that Monica is back in town.

Lip picks up the phone to call her back, but then he just texts instead because he doesn't want to deal with Fiona trying to get him to commiserate about it:

_Monica's in town again. Keep the doors locked and don't let her or Frank anywhere near the kids._

After a moment, Fiona texts back:

_Shit_

_Yeah_ , Lip thinks.

He puts his phone away and stares at his reflection in the window again. The lights in the train car give him a greenish cast, but the combination of the brightness inside and the darkness outside allow him to see himself quite clearly. And all Lip can think as he gazes at himself is that he still looks a lot like Frank. He likes to tell himself that he grew out of it, that the older he gets the more the resemblance fades, but that isn't the case. He's still clearly Frank's son.

When he was little and still gave a shit about Frank's affections, Lip recalls being put out that he was never Frank's favorite. That prize went to Fiona, his firstborn and his girl. It didn't seem fair—everybody was always saying how much Lip looked like Frank, was clever like Frank…Eventually, Lip figured it out—Frank didn't like Lip  _because_  he was so much like him. Frank didn't like Frank.

It worked differently for Ian, of course. He looked like Monica, and Lip was convinced that Monica loved Ian best because of this. She doted on him, gave him lots of hugs and kisses she didn't always give to Fiona and Lip, fussed about him being too skinny even if she never managed to do much in the way of fixing it. At the time, Lip was certain this was because Ian was so much like her, and Monica was in love with her little walking mirror, but maybe it was because Ian looked like Clayton. Maybe it was because Ian was just a sweeter kid than Lip and Fiona were. Or maybe it was because he was the baby. Monica always did like her babies best—they were the ones she hadn't yet disappointed.

Monica made Lip nervous because there was no logic to her. He couldn't predict who she was going to be or how she was going to act from one day to the next, sometimes from one interaction to the next. He sussed out this problem from the time he was very young and did his best to keep his distance and avoid dealing with her whenever he could. Ian was a different story, though. Ian seemed to take Monica's swings as natural, sort of rolling with them as they came. They never seemed to cause his devotion to her to waver.

Then she left.

Lip never cried over Monica. Not once. Ian did all the crying for both of them that first time. Lip felt his own pain released through Ian's hysterical sobs and had no need for anything more.

Monica returned, of course, a year or so later, but Ian was no longer the baby then. He had a little sister, then a little brother, then he once again had no more mother, despite all her assurances that it would never be that way again.

Ian didn't cry that second time she left. He was clearly upset, but he'd learned by then how to keep it inside, how to keep a calm face for Debbie and Carl.

Then when Monica returned to have Liam and left again, almost as quickly as Liam appeared, something began to change. Maybe Ian was just getting older—this was about the same time he started losing the babyish quality to his face and looking more like a teenager than a child—but Lip could swear something started to turn hard in his brother. There was almost a steel mesh just under the surface of his skin, like the reinforced glass in the windows at the boys' home where Lip had been during one of their brief trips through the foster care system.

It was chilling and, even though Lip knew it was probably necessary for survival, he regretted ever having longed for Ian's softness to toughen up. Something beautiful in the world had once again been snuffed out. And Lip still blames Monica. He will always blame Monica.

Monica was responsible for Ian being too soft and kind in the first place. Then Monica was responsible for making him so steely and guarded. Finally Monica, in some sort of sick coup de grâce by proxy, was responsible for damaging Ian irrevocably. Lip will never forgive her.

But Ian had always seemed the most like Monica because he was open and loving and gentle. He was like her in her best moments. That resemblance became less noticeable as he grew older and more cynical. There was one aspect of him, though, that continued to remind Lip and Fiona of Monica, and it wasn't the kind of thing he could outgrow like a baby face or innocence.

" _She's gone back to red."_

Frank's words stick in Lip's head as the train continues on achingly slow. All the other stuff that Frank had said, what Mickey had said, all of that is jumping around Lip's skull too, but that one statement keeps bashing up against his prefrontal cortex.

Monica's hair was dyed red when they were little, when it was just the three of them. It was not the unmistakable only-created-in-nature red of Ian's, but close enough to emphasize their shared features of wide-set green eyes, broad smile, and slightly rounded nose. For better or for ill after the first time Monica left, when they looked at Ian, they saw her. And sometimes that was hard. Sometimes it's still hard.

An announcement comes over the PA, something garbled about a delay and signal work ahead, whatever that means. They're between two stations and the train whines toward a halt. As it hits its final, jerky stop, the woman sitting across the aisle from Lip drops her scarf.

He bends down to pick it up for her and the red fabric against the gray floor sets off a memory Lip has not thought about in years.

Ian got sent home from the Cub Scouts for having lice. It happened the month that Lip and Ian were both eight.

Fiona's hands were full with Debbie and Carl when the scoutmaster called, so she sent Lip down to retrieve Ian from the basement of the Baptist church.

Monica had been gone again for a while by that point. Still, it stung fresh when Lip arrived to take Ian home and the scoutmaster's stupid bitch of a wife demanded to know, "Where's your mother?"

Lip ignored her, focused instead on Ian's scarlet ears and the defiant way he held his chin up. All the other boys were sitting in chairs around a long table, knotting short lengths of rope to match a bunch of photocopied diagrams. Ian was separated from them, quarantined on the far side of the room. Nobody had given him a length of rope. Nobody had even given him a fucking chair.

"Where's your mother?" The woman repeated, "I want to speak to Ian's mother."

Lip stepped past her, jerking away as she tried to grab him by the jacket collar.

"Come on, Ian," Lip said, taking him by the hand, even though they'd long been too old and too cool for holding hands by that point.

A few of the other boys started snickering, and Ian wrested his hand out of Lip's and stomped ahead of him. Lip was glad to see at least that the scoutmaster's wife gave Ian a wide berth and didn't try to grab at either of them as they passed.

" _Where_  is your mother?" she asked again.

"She's dead," Lip finally replied, not even caring that this was the kind of thing you weren't supposed to lie about. He knew this would make these assholes feel bad. They should already feel bad, but they didn't, so at least Lip could fix that.

Ian didn't say a word the whole walk home, and he waited outside while Lip went into Walgreens to put the delousing shampoo under his jacket. Usually, Ian would be Lip's cover because Ian always looked so innocent, but Lip didn't push him on it. Lip managed to get the job done without the freckles.

When they got back to the house, Fiona had already stripped all the beds. She'd loaded the sheets into the washer and had the towels piled up beside the machine, waiting for the next round. She had Ian take off his uniform, and she threw it in with the sheets.

She tilted her head, indicating the bathroom upstairs, and said, "You go shampoo. I gotta get all his clothes together and vacuum."

Lip gave Ian a shove toward the stairs and then followed him up.

They didn't say much while they were in the bathroom. Ian just knelt there with his head under the tub faucet, while Lip scrubbed in the stinky shampoo and watched the nasty little white invaders swirl down the drain to their death.

Lip scrubbed until he could find no more little bodies then he scrubbed some more for good measure, trying to get all the invisible eggs like the box had instructed.

Finally, Lip turned off the water and helped Ian up. Fiona had taken all the towels, so Ian sat there, dripping miserably until Lip pulled off his own shirt and wrapped it around his brother's head like a turban.

Lip re-read the shampoo directions once more while fingering the little nit comb that had come in the package. There was nothing left to do, according to the instructions, but Lip didn't tell Ian this. Lip needed to do something more.

"Okay," Lip said, giving a little nod over the box as if in agreement with something he'd read, "Go wait for me out back so we can finish this. I'll get the rest of the stuff."

Ian didn't ask what the rest of the stuff was or what Lip meant by 'finish this.' Ian was naturally obedient.

As Ian headed dutifully downstairs, Lip didn't hesitate to gather the supplies. If he'd hesitated, he might have had to question why he was suddenly so compelled to do what he was about to do. Instead, he just grabbed the scissors along with Frank's razor and shaving cream. Then he filled Debbie and Carl's bathtub toy bucket with water and carried it all down to the back yard.

Ian never questioned him as Lip started snipping off handfuls of Ian's hair. Lip snipped and snipped and snipped until Ian's hair was too short to grasp.

Then Lip paused and asked Ian, "Are you ready?"

"I guess," Ian replied.

So Lip knelt over him and started spreading shaving foam over Ian's head. Ian laughed a little at the sensation, and that gave Lip pause.

Lip stopped and sat back on his heels.

"What?" Ian asked, looking up at him with curiosity.

"Nothing," Lip said, leaning forward once more to complete the job, "Just stop moving."

"Sorry," Ian said.

Lip finished applying the shaving cream and then moved swiftly to the razor before he could lose his nerve.

Though Lip did his best to careful and gentle, Ian's scalp still started bleeding little pin drops of blood in a few places. Each time Lip drew the razor across and this happened, Ian took in a sharp breath between his teeth, but did as he was told and did not move.

Once Lip had shaved the last patch of hair away, he rinsed the razor one final time in the murky water. Then he poured the bucket over Ian's head and stepped back to appraise his handiwork.

Apart from the bits of blood here and there, Ian's scalp was, amazingly, even whiter than the rest of him. It looked like a finger after you remove a too-tight Band-Aid that's been on a while. And, to Lip's sinking disappointment, his brother still resembled their mother, even without the hair. Those same guileless eyes looked back at him expectantly.

Before Lip could say anything, Fiona came out, lugging Carl on her hip.

"You shaved his head?" She sputtered, taking in the scene with her eyes wide, "You didn't have to do that!"

"Yeah, I did," Lip insisted, throwing the razor and the shaving cream into the bucket, "Said so on the box."

"It did?" Fiona asked, switching Carl to her other hip, "Then why would you have to shampoo his hair?"

"To kill the eggs," Lip replied scornfully, knowing that if he could make Fiona feel stupid, she'd believe him.

It worked. Fiona didn't question Lip further. Instead she licked her finger and used it to wipe away a bit of blood from Ian's scalp.

"You look cute," she told him.

Ian didn't appear convinced by this statement, but he seemed resigned to his fate. Without being asked, he started helping Lip sweep up the hair while Fiona took Carl back inside.

"Hey, it's okay," Lip said, reaching out to stop Ian's work, "I got this."

"It'll go faster if it's two of us," Ian replied.

"No," Lip said firmly, "I said I got it. Go inside and put some Bactine on your head."

Ian shrugged and did as he was told. Alone in the yard, Lip swept the bits of discarded Monica onto a piece of cardboard, then dumped the whole thing in the trash.

Inside, Lip found Ian at the bathroom mirror, frowning over his new reflection.

"Now everyone's gonna know," Ian said.

"Everyone already knows," Lip said back, "You think the kids in your troupe aren't gonna be laughing about it at school tomorrow? They're gonna tell everybody anyway."

Ian ran a hand once more over his newly naked skin and set his jaw. "I hate everything," he said.

Lip had patted him on the shoulder and felt better, being able to reassure his brother like that.

Ian never went back to the Cub Scouts. After they'd rejected him, they were dead to him. He focused his attention on Little League instead.

Lip told Debbie that Ian had been kicked out from the Cub Scouts for having lice. The takeaway, he said, was that was why it wasn't worth trying to fit in with any kind of group—they were always just looking for an excuse to kick you out.

"It's all bullshit," Lip told Debbie, "Never pledge your loyalty to anyone but your family or yourself. You got that?"

He didn't know if Debbie knew what half the words he'd said meant, but she nodded solemnly over the head of her baby doll. At least Lip had the validation of knowing Debbie was on his side. Ian had never seen receptive to the same message.

The train starts one more with a lurch and no warning on the PA. Lip folds his hands in his lap and closes his eyes, determined to waste no more time tonight on memories. Two more stops and then he's as far as he can get for now from the Southside and from home.

* * *

Lip has another one of those dreams about Ian being dead. This one makes even less sense than these dreams usually do, but this time Lip's old Calculus instructor says something that Lip finds himself repeating as he startles awake.

Lip rushes to scribble the phrase down so he can preserve its profundity. As his brain moves further into wakefulness, though, he reads it back and realizes that it holds no logic at all:

_Ian died like he lived: in a suitcase._

Fucking gibberish. And macabre gibberish at that.

"Fuck," Lip mutters. His heart is pounding and his shirt is stuck to his back with sweat and it's giving him the chills.

He changes his shirt, fumbling around a bit in the dark, trying not to wake Kuz. Then Lip sits on top of his blankets holding his phone with two hands like a totem.

He scrolls through the previous text messages he's gotten recently from Ian. They're few and far between. If he goes back to last year, though, there's a lot more. Not that the conversations are anything profound—mostly making fun of Fiona or arguing over whose turn it was to pick up what from the store, one long series in which Ian texts Lip questions from his trig exam and begs him to give him the answers—but reading them again makes Lip feel like the brother he used to know might still be around somewhere.

Lip takes a chance and texts:

_You awake?_

But it's 3:14 am and no reply comes.

Eventually, Lip abandons the phone on the nightstand and crawls back under the covers. He's exhausted, but also still keyed up. It's a wretched combination, and it's pissing him off.

Lip kicks his way out of the bed, pulls some jeans on over his shorts and takes his whiskey flask for a walk. He ends up in an empty common area at the end of the hall—it's all modular seating with a hideous geometric pattern on it and framed generic photos of soaring cliffs that are meant to inspire you to study even harder and climb that mountain or some shit. He throws himself down, takes a sip (at last—something that works exactly how it's supposed to), and feels more normal again.

As he sits there in the dead silence of the dormitory floor, feeling like he's unlocked some secret none of these other kids have been clever enough to find, Lip tries to pinpoint exactly when it things started to fall apart. If he can retrace his steps, he can figure out exactly what went wrong and then he can fix it.

The text conversations taper off right around the time Ian ran away to enlist. At first Lip had texted him a lot, trying to figure out what the hell was going on. But Ian had been weird and coy about it, assuring everybody that he was okay but refusing to give any details and ignoring any direct questions. And that had ticked Lip off so much that he stopped texting, leaving it to Fiona to sort out Ian's little stunt.

It never once occurred to them that Ian had even left the city. Lip had reassured Fiona that Ian was couch-surfing in Boystown because of course that's where he was. The two of them had even sat up one night in the Gallagher kitchen talking about how this was probably really good for Ian. He'd be wound so tight that year that it felt inevitable that he'd need a break, some time to fuck off and be irresponsible for a while. Fiona'd been expecting something like that for ages—not running off to god knows where, exactly, but maybe cutting classes, getting a tattoo or something—just some rebellious diversion from feeling like he had to be the good little soldier all the time. Then when Lip introduced the idea of Ian having a walkabout in Boystown, that made all the sense in the world to her.

Lip knew the gay thing made Fiona uneasy because, like Lip, she never knew how to advise Ian—it wasn't exactly her wheelhouse and she suspected there were things they could never understand about his experience. This didn't stop Lip from giving Ian advice (Ian could just not take it if he didn't like it, and that seemed to be what happened mostly), but Fiona didn't want to ever touch the subject because she was afraid of saying something stupid. So the only thing to do when it came to Ian being gay and seventeen in their neighborhood was for Fiona to cross her fingers and hope Ian just somehow knew what he was doing.

Lip assured her that Ian did. Lip didn't tell Fiona what he knew about Mickey and what had happened between them, but Lip was certain there was no coincidence to the timing of Ian's sudden interest in exploring gay culture somewhere other than the Southside. And, shit, if the kid got to walk around in public up there and be himself without fear of getting cold cocked by Terry Milkovich (or by 10,000 other people in the neighborhood), no wonder he didn't want his sleepover party to end. It could even be good for him—seeing what life was like outside of this dump—maybe motivate him to re-focus on school, give up the pipe dream of West Point and settle for regular old college funded by ROTC.

"But, you think he's safe?" Fiona had asked Lip that night in the kitchen.

"Oh, sure," Lip replied, "Bet he's got some sugar daddy puttin' him up his condo, buyin' him clothes and shit. Ian's in paradise. Like gay boy summer camp."

Fiona had been somewhat assuaged by this, but there was still a lot of concern in her eyes. This pissed Lip off further. It was all well and good if Ian needed to run uptown to find his dumbass self, purge fucking Mickey Milkovich from his system, but it was selfish to do it in a way that made Fiona worry, made the kids worry. It wasn't like Ian, but Lip hadn't really thought about that at the time. He'd been too busy being mad at Ian. And too busy with everything else.

And then there were a whole bunch of texts from Lip once the military police showed up and Lip got seriously worried. Ian never responded to any of those texts.

Looking at them now, Lip feels that anxiety all over again:

_Where the fuck are you?_

_Tell me you're ok_

_Please tell me you're ok_

_Where are you?_

_Are you safe? Do you need help?_

_FUCKING TALK TO ME_

_You're scaring the shit out of everybody_

_Where are you?_

_FUCK YOU SHITHEAD ANSWER ME_

_You need to let me help you before this gets any worse._

_Where are you? I need to help you straighten this out._

_You could end up in fucking Gitmo for this shit._

_Talk to me Ian_

_Tell me where you are and I'll come get you. I can help._

_ANSWER YOUR FUCKING PHONE THIS IS SERIOUS_

That last message makes Lip feel sick. He can almost smell the hospital, hear Liam's pulse monitor, still see Fiona's bewildered look of betrayal as Lip just let the cops haul her off.

Lip drains his flask in memory of his fear that evening. There had never been a worse night in his life. As he sat in that hospital, frozen in panic about everything else, his mind kept wandering back to how obviously high Ian had been at The White Swallow earlier that evening, in front of Debbie and everything. Ian had gone and gotten a drug habit on top of whatever crazy shit he'd done to the Army. Lip had been worried sick until he'd gotten back to the house that night and…Liam. Sitting helplessly at the hospital late into the night, all Lip could think was "Fuck Ian," but at the same time, he wanted desperately to have Ian there with him. Lip had never needed his brother more.

Lip scrolls quickly through the rest of the messages. Ian texted a fair bit when he first came back to the Gallagher house, idiotic nonsense that Lip can't even bring himself to read now.

Lip knew. He knew even then that it was something worse than a drug habit. He probably even knew it was bipolar disorder, but he kept that thought buried too deep to acknowledge. He wasn't surprised at all when Fiona called him. That demon had been hovering around the ceiling all this time, just waiting for someone to speak its name and invoke it.

And then the texts from Ian stop.

There's a few more from Lip that never got any reply:

_How you doing?_

_Mind if I stop by?_

_Miss you man_

_How's it going?_

Then the next text from Ian, sent almost five months later, is completely innocuous:

_Fixed the back door. Don't worry about coming home for it._

The rest after that are pretty much along the same lines. It's boring stuff about the house, conferring about tasks Fiona needs them to do. It's all very polite and all very impersonal. Then Lip's text from earlier is the last thing there, staring back at him:

_Are you awake?_

Lip feels stupid now about sending it. He shoves his phone into his pocket and walks a little unevenly to his room. He slides back into bed, blessedly tranquilized, but before he settles down into a heavy sleep, he retrieves his phone from the pocket of his discarded jeans. He sends one final text, not even caring that it will make no sense to Ian:

_Stay away from suitcases._

* * *

"What the hell's wrong with your brother, huh?"

Lip glances up from the plate that he's currently scraping fossilized macaroni off of. Jerry, Lip's boss, is looking at him accusingly.

"What he do now?" Lip asks.

"Eddie says he's turning down the Mason-Shulman award. What the hell's wrong with him?"

"Oh."

Eddie is Ian's supervisor over in custodial. Eddie and Jerry are actually brothers and they've worked at the university together since the early 90s. When they realized Lip and Ian were brothers, they seemed to start taking a special interest in them. Lip's found it fairly creepy. Jerry and Eddie are like some funhouse mirror vision of what the future could be if things don't go so well, Lip and Ian still working in food service and custodial, getting overly invested in their underlings out of sheer boredom.

"So he doesn't want to be management," Lip says, dunking the plate back under the water, "So what? Not everybody wants a miniscule amount of authority they can use to lord over everybody else. Not everybody needs that kind of false reassurance of their own relevance."

"It was a big deal that Eddie nominated him for that," Jerry says, paying no attention to Lip's stale dig, "They only pick one employee a year. Out of the whole university. He's a smart kid—why wouldn't he want time to get a degree?"

Lip takes in this new information, but keeps his poker face on.

"Eddie shouldn't be so sensitive," Lip says. He takes the plate out from the water and loads it into the dishwasher rack.

"That's not ready for the washer yet," Jerry says, "It's still got crap on it. Can you talk to him?"

"Eddie?"

"Your brother. I don't think he realizes what he's turning down."

Lip takes the plate back out of the rack and plunges it once more into the water. He scrapes at it again, using his nails through his latex gloves this time.

"Ian does his own thing, man," Lip says, "He doesn't listen to me."

"Isn't that always the way?" Jerry muses warmly, "You know I tried to get Eddie to move into food service twenty years ago. Wouldn't listen to me. Had to do his own thing too, even if it meant supervising toilets instead of dirty dishes. Stubborn shit."

"That's a sad story."

"Yeah, yeah," Jerry says, picking up on Lip's poorly concealed sarcasm, "Pick up the pace, would you? The dishes are stacking up."

Later in class, the TA is going over review material for the upcoming midterm, but Lip's got it all, so he starts doing a little discreet research on his laptop. He starts looking for details on the Mason-Shulman Award. He finds a big section about it on the Faculty and Staff side of the Chi Poly website. From the looks of it, it really is a big deal. There's a ton of information about it, most of it written in empty, public relations speak.

Lip skims it:

… _one recipient per academic year…individual who demonstrates unique character and potential…would benefit from sustained guidance in pursuing higher education…for the betterment of the individual and the university community as a whole…university's commitment to the advancement of faculty and staff…offering educational and economic opportunity to persons who embody the ethics and values of Chicago Polytechnic…support in pursuing the bachelors degree…support for books and fees in addition to tuition waiver per reciprocal ICUS agreement…personal advising…course plan designed to meet individual needs and goals of the Mason-Shulman recipient…applicable leave for course attendance, related obligations, and examinations granted in conference with recipient's staff supervisor pending approval from supervisory board…automatic consideration for appropriate supervisory positions upon completion of program in accordance with SEIU contract guidelines…_

Well, shit. Lip hasn't really been pushing Ian on taking advantage of the tuition waiver his job already offers him, and this has been a more or less conscious decision. Lip didn't want Ian taking on too much, especially now that he's just had his first real stretch of time with his meds all stable. Lip figured he'd harass Ian about bettering his situation later, let him just get used to even having a situation first. That was plenty.

But this? Jesus, the school's practically begging to hold Ian's hand, walk him through getting a college education, bend over backwards to accommodate him, and then all but guarantee him a promotion when it's all done. Seriously…what the fuck is wrong with Ian? Lip had no idea when Ian mentioned the deal the other morning that it was anything like this.

Then Lip considers that conversation again, how Ian had so quickly agreed with him that it wasn't worth bothering with. It had felt like Ian was asking for permission to pass it up, for confirmation from Lip that this was something Ian couldn't handle. But now Lip wonders if Ian wasn't asking for exactly the opposite, if he hadn't been angling for a push or reassurance that he was capable. There had been that touch of tentative pride in his voice, that hint of old Ian who liked taking on challenges…and Lip had squashed it.

It makes him think of the one time Lip ever asked Frank for his advice on something. Lip had been invited to join the Science Club in seventh grade; they'd tried to recruit him—the other members and the faculty advisor—because they flat-out said that Lip was their only chance of going downstate that year. Lip had been kind of bragging when he told Frank about it, looking for a little validation in a year that had otherwise been full of acne and almost every other guy in middle school (including Lip's own younger brother) growing taller than him while Lip still lingered on looking like a sixth-grader. But validation was not something Frank was ever gonna give him. Instead, Frank had chastised Lip about being dumb enough to not know that every club was a racket, that the whole educational system was a scam, that Lip was yet another bright mind being indoctrinated into becoming a happy cog in the capitalist machine. So Lip had never joined the club, and he ended up getting caught shoplifting the day the rest of those kids all went to the state semi-finals. The cops had let Lip sit overnight in jail (most of it spent in the drunk tank) to "teach him a lesson." But the only lesson Lip stewed on that night was that Frank and all those assholes in the Science Club could go fuck themselves.

Lip checks the clock on his laptop. He knows from the couple times he's been late to class and passed Ian on the way that this is when Ian takes his lunch break. He's always sitting in the same spot, eating the same sorry-looking sandwich and staring into space.

Quietly, Lip packs up his things and slips out of the lecture hall. He traverses a couple of hallways and then finds Ian as expected, sitting on a bench in the corner of the atrium. He's got his cart of cleaning supplies parked beside him. Instead of just looking out the window as he eats, though, Ian's engrossed in a book. Lip pauses before approaching him.

Lip taught Ian to read. It was early, before Ian had even started school, though not as early as Lip had taught himself. Still, Lip did it, and Ian entered first grade, like Lip, as the only boy in his class who could already read. Later, Lip would credit this early intervention as the reason why Ian always did so well in English class; Lip had gifted him a leg up and his first big source of confidence. Unfortunately, this was both the first and last leg up Ian ever really got in school. Or life.

Lip tried to do the same with math, but Ian always had a hard time getting his head around it, and Lip didn't know how to walk his own brain back enough steps to explain it well. But the reading, at least that had worked.

Lip, of course, was the biggest reader in the house, but Ian had always been a close second. Carl never had the patience for a book and Fiona didn't have the attention span or time, which is probably why they both still write like third graders. Debbie was pretty decent on both the reading and writing counts, but, to Lip's annoyance, she mostly stuck to novels.

Lip had instructed all of his siblings at one point or another that if you read stories, it was just distraction. You might as well do less work and watch TV. But if you read non-fiction, real stuff, you couldn't help but learn about something. Unless it was a novel assigned for school, Lip exclusively read non-fiction, and Ian followed suit. He preferred history books, mostly, about wars and battles, or biographies of great men. Ian actually read a fair bit of this stuff, staying up late into the night sometimes until Lip or Carl complained about the lamp still being on.

So seeing Ian hunched over a book again brings back fond memories of those nights in their shared room. Lip desperately wants to feel the warmth of those times right now. He's smiling as he approaches his brother. It feels like the Ian that Lip used to know is finally within his view.

"Whatcha reading?" Lip asks.

Ian glances up and acknowledges Lip with a half smile. He flips the book up to display the cover.

"Stephen King, huh?" Lip remarks.

"It's not bad. Creepy."

"Yeah, I've heard. Why you wastin' your time on that crap?"

Ian shrugs. He sets down the book and picks up his sandwich. "It's my lunch break," he says around a mouthful of bread and peanut butter.

"You know, if you were taking a class, you could get a lot of your homework done on your lunch break. Wouldn't be like you'd have to put in a lot of extra time on it. One class would be nothin' for you."

"Mmm," Ian replies noncommittally.

"You given any thought to takin' a class or two? Like we talked about this summer?"

"Not really," Ian says, picking at his sandwich. He tears off a piece and eats it like that instead of just biting it off. It's like he wants an excuse to keep his eyes on the sandwich in his lap and not to have to look at Lip. "I got a lot goin' on," he says.

Lip starts to scoff at this but stops. Yeah, Ian hasn't got much going on at all—working his bullshit job, helping out the track coach two days a week, probably babysitting Mickey's kid—but maybe it seems like a lot to Ian. Or maybe Ian's just afraid to rock the boat. It's been remarkably smooth sailing these last couple months, and Lip can understand the desire not to mess with that. He's felt it himself. But this opportunity now? Lip can't just let this go. He can't sit back and let his brother, who was always fucking  _brave_  if nothing else, be so scared that he passes on this chance.

"So, I looked up that award thing they wanna give you," Lip begins, "I didn't realize what a big deal it was. I thought it was some bullshit management trainee thing, take a couple Saturday seminars, whatever, but this—"

Ian cuts him off with a shake of the head, though. "Jesus, Lip, just leave it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean leave it," Ian says, "I don't want to talk about this. I don't want you looking up stuff and getting involved. Just leave it."

"Okay, sure, you don't want me telling you what to do," Lip agrees, dismissing the complaint, "But this is a big opportunity. Do you realize what they're trying to do for you?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, but, did you read the whole thing? About the—"

"I read it."

"Did you see the part about tailoring course selections to your interests? About giving you time off for exam prep and course projects? About considering you first for promotion? You'd have a fuckin' degree and a better job and, man, I read the fine print—the legal stuff? You don't even owe them anything for this. You can take that degree and go work any other job you can get with it. How do you turn that down? I mean, I know you're worried you'll get overwhelmed and fuck it all up, and believe me, I'm worried too, but I think this is a risk you gotta take. You're not gonna get a lot of other chances like this, man, let's be honest…"

Then Lip pauses, realizing that Ian isn't responding or appearing to even be listening. Ian's giving him the goddamn  _chin_. There are few things that make Lip want to strangle Ian more than when he gives chin.

Lip glares at Ian as Ian glares into the distance, jaw set, chin jutted out. But carefully, carefully, Lip steps his temper back. Once the chin comes out, Ian can't be reasoned with, and Lip's only choices are either to rail at him fruitlessly or to re-strategize.

"Okay," Lip says, forcing as much lightness into his tone as possible, "Forget it."

Ian's eyes flick toward him suspiciously.

"I'm done talkin' about it," Lip lies.

Ian keeps his eyes on him a wary moment longer, then drops his armor and returns his attention to his sandwich.

Lip takes a seat on the bench beside him and asks, "You wanna hang out and get a drink or somethin' when you get off work tonight? Can call and text Mickey ahead of time, tell Fiona to get the phone tree goin' with the kids, issue a press statement on your whereabouts. Do it all legit this time."

"Can't," Ian says.

"Got somethin' else to do?"

"Yeah."

Lip waits for Ian to tell him what it is, but Ian just eats the last bite of his sandwich. Then he crumples up his lunch bag and stands up.

"Gotta get back to work," he says. He sets both the library book and the balled-up paper bag on his cart.

Lip glances at the wall clock behind them. There's easily still twenty minutes until his lunch break is over. Ian's trying to get away from him. That hurts more than Lip would've expected.

Ian's making a show of getting his cart in order, as if every item on it must be just so before he can start pushing it. Lip's pretty sure Ian's trying to bore Lip into leaving him alone. Is this how you start cutting someone out of your life?

Lip shoves his hands in his pockets and says, "Hey, that was fun the other night, though, wasn't it? We should do that again. There's always a party going on somewhere on campus any Friday or Saturday. You should come out more."

Ian starts pushing his cart and says, "Nah, I can't keep doing all that."

Lip walks along side him and asks, "What? The drinking?"

"Yeah."

"Cause of your meds? I thought you were okay to drink."

"No," Ian replies, keeping his eyes straight ahead. Lip wonders if Ian is ever going to stop walking like a wannabe soldier.

Then Ian explains, "I can drink. Just hits me quicker. But I shouldn't drink like that. I like feeling like that better than I like feeling like this. And…that's probably not good."

"Oh."

Lip processes this. It's a bit of a terrifying statement, and it's unsettling to hear Ian vocalize it so matter-of-factly. But Lip hides his discomfort and says, "That's actually pretty smart. I'm, uh, I'm glad you're aware of that."

Ian turns his head to look at him. "How could you not be," Ian asks, "growing up with Frank and Monica?"

Lip gives him a smile of commiseration. "Yeah," he agrees.

It's still a troublesome thought, though, that Ian recognizes that desire in himself. Lip briefly considers giving Ian a head's up that Monica's in town, but he decides against it. He doesn't want to see how Ian would react to this knowledge. And it's probably better off if Ian is just blissfully ignorant. Mickey's right about something: Ian doesn't need to be dealing with that shit right now.

After they've walked down the hall for a bit in measured silence, Ian stops pushing the cart and turns to Lip.

"I gotta get back to work," Ian says, "And you gotta get to your lab."

That catches Lip off-guard. "How did you know I have a lab at two?" he asks.

Ian sighs. "I'm here all day, all week long. I know your whole schedule."

"Oh," Lip says, dumbfounded.

"And you're gonna be late for your electronics lab if you don't go. You already walked out on half your statistics lecture. You can't do that shit."

Lip looks at Ian for a moment, standing there in his uniform with his stupid cart, and the divide between them has never felt greater. And yet Lip is reminded of something familiar he hasn't thought of in a while—Ian used to worship him. Ian used to follow Lip's exploits—in school, in the neighborhood—the way some kids followed stats on their favorite professional athletes. Ian never said much about it, but he always knew what was going on with Lip, always was ready and fully knowledgeable when Lip launched into some story or long-winded rant about whatever had happened to him that day. Ian knew all the players in Lip's life, knew when Lip had said something particularly witty or cutting in class…Ian was Lip's biggest fan. Lip had taken it for granted, that this was the way it was supposed to be and that this was the way it would always be.

Ian would've been proud of Lip had he joined the Science Club in seventh grade, probably would've ridden downstate with him on the bus, just to sit there in the audience and support him.

Lip took for granted that Ian loved him, just like Lip's taken it for granted that once Mickey came onto the scene, Ian stopped giving a shit at all about his brother. Maybe Lip needs to not be so quick to take anything with Ian for granted.

"Hey, man," Lip says to him now, "If this is something you think you might wanna do, you know I'll help you, right? You know I'll write your fuckin' papers for you if I have to. I can take your tests, do your homework even. Whatever we have to do to get you through, I can do it."

There's something in Ian's eyes when Lip says this, some flash of emotion Lip can't place, but then it's gone just as quick as it appeared. Ian's patronizing smile is back and he gives Lip a pat on the shoulder.

"Just get to class," Ian says.

He puts both hands on the cart and begins to push it past Lip. He takes a corner and disappears down the adjacent hallway. Lip remains in the main corridor, alone.

* * *

Lip loses track of thinking about Ian for a few days, distracted with two exams and a paper and with reading different washer repair forums, still trying to figure that one out for Fiona. He completely forgets about his upcoming summit with Mickey until Amanda's scrolling through his planner app and asks about it.

"Is Mickey your brother's boyfriend? The one with the—" she wiggles her knuckles at him.

"That's the one," Lip replies, retuning his eyes to the pdf manual for Fiona's washer, "Husband, actually."

"Right," Amanda murmurs then remarks, "I didn't know you guys hung out."

"Shit," Lip says, looking up again, "Is that tonight?"

"Six o'clock."

"Fuck."

"You got time," she says helpfully.

"Yeah, I just…fuck. That's the last thing I want to do tonight."

"You could cancel."

Lip sets the laptop down, thoroughly irritated. "I really can't," he says.

Amanda shrugs. "Go or don't go. This conversation is boring."

Lip glances at the clock. "We could have a quick one."

Amanda looks at the clock too then shakes her head. "That's not enough time for what I want."

"I can make it count," Lip says hopefully.

"No you can't," she replies. She switches from the planner app to a spreadsheet and says, "So, you need a 91 on this exam to keep in the A range."

"Pretty sure I got at least a 94," Lip says, tabling his disappointment that there will be no pre-summit lay to take his mind off things.

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah, there was one question I'm not sure about. It was worded strangely. The rest I aced, though."

"Nice job, cowboy. Looks like you're keeping on track."

"Sure you don't got time for a pity lay?"

"I don't ever have time for a pity lay. How's the essay coming?"

"Mostly finished. Gotta work in two more sources, then some bullshit conclusion."

Lip takes up his laptop again, minimizes the washer pdf and has another look over his essay. It's actually not a bad paper at all. And he'd much rather stay here and finish it up tonight than go see Mickey. Christ, he doesn't want to deal with that shit.

A message notification pings on Lip's phone.

"Washer's fixed," Amanda reads out loud to him, "From your sister."

"The fuck?" Lip mutters, taking the phone from her. Immediately, he texts back to Fiona:

_How? How much?_

There's a delay, then Fiona responds:

_Free! Ian had a friend from work look at it. Took 5 minutes!_

Lip's not sure why, but this turn of events makes him suddenly very irritated. He manages to text back:

_OK. Good._

But the message doesn't at all match how he's feeling. Lip doesn't understand it either. Why the hell is he so aggravated by this? One less thing for Lip to worry about, didn't cost them anything, Ian gets to be the hero of the day again…God, is that it? Or is it that Ian did what Lip couldn't do? It's not supposed to work like that.

"What's your problem?" Amanda asks, taking in Lip's fuming scowl.

"Everything's fucking annoying today."

Amanda sighs and climbs to her feet. "I'm going back to my place," she says, "I've got my own stuff to do."

Lip continues to scowl at his phone, paying little attention to Amanda, but as she reaches the door, he asks her, "Do you think I'm an asshole?"

"Of course."

"I'm serious."

"So am I. How is that even a question?"

Lip's scowl deepens as she heads out. Just as Amanda departs, Lip's phone buzzes with another text notification. It's from Mickey:

_We still doing this?_

Lip thumps his head against the cinder block wall and closes his eyes for a long minute. Then he reaches for his shoes.

* * *

The pool hall Mickey chose to meet at is in Bronzeville, of all places. There's definitely no chance of running into Ian or anyone he knows here, Lip thinks as he walks briskly from the bus stop, but he can't help but wonder how Mickey even found it in the first place.

Inside the hall, though, Lip spots Mickey chatting away with some dude at a pool table like he isn't the only white guy in the place save for Lip. Nobody is paying the slightest bit of attention to Mickey, though Lip gets a couple of skeptical looks as he takes a seat at the bar. Maybe that's just in his head, though.

He orders a scotch to wait out the rest of Mickey's game and does his best to look like he comes here all the time. Once he gets his drink, he turns around and sits back, watching Mickey play. He's not bad. He's definitely holding his own with the guy, and Lip makes a mental note to not agree if Mickey invites him to play a round. Lip's mediocre at billiards, and he sure as hell isn't about to let Mickey beat him.

Mickey ends up winning and accepting a fat wad of cash from the guy before he saunters over to the bar, looking smug as shit. He orders a shot and a beer and slides onto the stool next to Lip.

Mickey says calmly, "So, what's your problem with me, huh? The fuck's wrong with you?"

"That's it? That's your opening? Should get you a job with the UN."

Mickey makes a face. He does his shot, chases it with a big gulp of beer and then starts again with a heavy dollop of mockery.

"So, how's college?"

"Fine," Lip says, "How's the sex trade?"

"Pays the bills, man," Mickey shrugs and sips his beer. Then he asks, "You see Ian much up there?"

Lip shrugs right back, taking on the same insouciance, "We have lunch together sometimes."

Lip doesn't mention that "having lunch together" mainly consists of Lip walking past Ian on his lunch break. It's better to make it sound like Lip and Ian are having a grand old time up at the university without Mickey. In his head, Lip pictures himself and Ian laughing over something stupid Mickey did. He hopes Mickey's picturing the same thing.

A bit of the arrogance drops off of Mickey's face as he addresses his beer glass and says, "He had fun at that party the other night. Always likes that shit, though. Dancin' and messin' around, makin' pals with good-lookin' people and all that? You know how he is."

Lip doesn't know this at all (when has Ian ever been some social butterfly?), but Lip doesn't let this on. He is pleased, though, to note that Mickey only knows this fake Ian that he is outside of the Gallagher house. Mickey doesn't have the real Ian.

"I try to get 'em to go out some times 'cause I know he likes that," Mickey continues, "Don't know why he never wants to go no more."

"Maybe he doesn't want to go because you make a big fuckin' fuss when he does," Lip replies.

Mickey shakes his head with his lips pressed tight together, as if he's willing himself not to say something. Then he just says quietly, "Scared the shit out of me when he didn't come home, and I didn't know where he was."

"Yeah," Lip says, tilting the scotch around in his glass, "I know somethin' about what that feels like. Not knowing where Ian is or if he's okay. For months. And there's people who know where he is, and they don't even have the fuckin' decency to tell you..."

Lip doesn't look up to see Mickey's reaction to this statement. Lip doesn't care. He can still taste that same sick worry he'd felt the night he first realized Ian wasn't at any ROTC retreat, that slow burning panic that had set in when the MPs showed up, the horrific realization that something had gone very, very wrong. Mickey and Mandy had known where Ian was that entire time, and they'd never once said a word to Lip or Fiona or to any of them. You can't trust Milkoviches as far as you can throw them.

Before Mickey can say anything in response to this, a waitress approaches them. "You gonna order anything to eat, Mick?" she asks tiredly.

Mickey looks to Lip. "You like catfish?"

Lip shrugs. "It's all right."

"Got fuckin' great catfish here. Owner knows a guy's got his own farm," Mickey says to Lip. To the waitress he puts on a big smile and says, "Two catfish plates with fries."

"Blackened or fried?" she asks.

"Fried."

"Got it," she says and heads back to the kitchen.

"Not on the Ian Gallagher diet, huh?" Lip asks.

"Christ, no. I ain't Bugs Bunny."

"Figured he'd have you going for runs with him by this point," Lip says, "Matchin' track suits, makin' smoothies together…"

"Fuck, man," Mickey says, "He's lucky I don't strangle him when he starts doin' goddamn lunges at five in the mornin' when I'm tryin to sleep."

Lip smiles in commiseration, remembering all the mornings he'd spent with a pillow over his head while Ian grunted through his warm up or counted off push-ups under his breath. The shithead had even tried working jumping jacks into his routine for a few weeks until Carl threatened to Nancy Kerrigan Ian in his sleep if he didn't knock it off.

Mickey sips his beer and shakes his head, marveling. "That's some dedication, though," he says, "Was he always like that?"

Lip ponders this. Ian had always been an energetic kid and a natural athlete—he'd been able to out-run Lip and take him in a fight pretty much as far back as Lip could remember. But as for when the singular focus on becoming Captain America started, Lip has to rack his brain.

"Think it was when he did the President's Physical Fitness thing in sixth grade," he says, "Remember that bullshit?"

Mickey puts a hand to his forehead. "Fuckin' shuttle races and chin-ups," he mutters.

"Yeah."

"You fell off the chin-up bar in sixth grade," Mickey says, grinning now and pointing at Lip, "Broke your ass."

"My tailbone."

"Fuckin' hilarious."

Lip remembers it being humiliating and painful, but he doesn't say anything about this because, frankly, it's mortifying that Mickey still recalls the incident. Lip's gotten past most of the public embarrassments in his life by assuming that everybody else has forgotten them. Leave it to Mickey to remember this one. Lip can still see twelve-year-old Mickey Milkovich cackling at him with the rest of his sixth grade gym class, laughing like Pinocchio donkey boys.

"Anyway," Lip says, skillfully directing the conversation back to the topic of Ian, "when  _he_  was in sixth grade, he won, like, six of those. Couple of different races, the chin-up one, bunch of stuff. Think it went to his head a little, and he got carried away. Pretty sure that's when it all started."

Mickey frowns over his beer, obviously contemplating something. Then he asks, "This around the time we were all plannin' to beat you up?"

"Huh?"

"In seventh grade when you were real small," Mickey says, "I remember it 'cause even I was taller than you. And I wasn't ever taller than nobody. But…man, you were just this little shrinky-dink shrimp with a big ole mouth. Like you couldn't stop yourself from sayin' shit to us. Such a smart ass."

"That sounds about right," Lip murmurs.

"Yeah, yeah," Mickey says, excited now as he puts the pieces from the two stories together, "This must've been the same time. Ian was telling me about this back when we worked at the Kash 'n Grab. How when he was eleven or twelve or whatever he heard that a bunch of us were talkin' 'bout kickin' your ass. Teachin' you a lesson, you know? Told me he started tryin' to get stronger so he could be your right hand man, or whatever."

Mickey laughs at the memory, "Didn't think you stood a chance by yourself. He wasn't wrong. I tell you that."

Lip sits flabbergasted, taking this in. He pictures Ian, still so scrawny up through most of high school.

"That's ridiculous," Lip says, "he was tiny then."

Mickey cocks his head. "He was bigger than you, wasn't he?"

"Well, yeah, but—"

"He did what he could, man."

Lip stares into his glass, knowing that there's no way this story isn't absolutely the truth. Somehow Mickey knows not only something about Ian's life that Lip never knew but something about Lip's life too. Lip feels unmoored by this revelation. He doesn't  _want_  Mickey knowing this shit.

Mickey drains the last of his beer and remarks, "Lucky we never got around to doin' it. Probably would've broke both your asses."

They don't say much for a bit. Mickey gets another beer. Lip gets another scotch. This is better liquor than what Lip is used to drinking on his own or what Kev serves at The Alibi. It's supposedly the same brand that Kev serves, though, which makes Lip consider the idea that Kev is watering his shit down. Is this because Kev is cheap and watering everybody's liquor down (likely) or because Kev believes that Lip in particular needs to have his scotch watered down (an odd possibility)? Does he think Lip's a lightweight? That's an insulting thought.

Just as Lip's determining to confront Kev about his alleged paternalistic liquor-weakening, Mickey speaks up.

"When you see Ian up there, you ever talk to him about it?"

"About what?"

"You know. College."

"Like, the school itself? The university?"

Mickey rolls his eyes. "No, Einstein. About  _Ian_  goin' to college. Takin' some classes."

"Oh." Lip sits back and looks at Mickey straight on for the first time and says, "That somethin' you think he should do?"

"He's smart enough, ain't he? Did all right when he was in school."

"Sucked at math," Lip says.

"Eh," Mickey dismisses this, "I could help him with that."

Lip gives an involuntary laugh at the idea.

"What?" Mickey asks, "You don't think it's a good idea? I think he could do it."

Lip looks at Mickey and recognizes actual concern for Ian, that they're both on the same page for once in regards to him. Lip softens a little.

"No," Lip says earnestly, "I think it's a good idea. I think he'd be stupid not to do it."

The waitress returns with their catfish baskets and lays them out in front of them. They're interrupted for a few minutes, getting situated.

Then Mickey says, "Just seems like a waste. He ain't stupid. He ain't lazy. He ain't even got a criminal record. The fuck shouldn't he try and get some place better than this?"

Mickey shoves a big chunk of fried catfish in his mouth and says to himself, "Always thought he'd get outta here."

_Then why the hell were you in such a hurry to make him permanently tied to something here?_  Lip thinks as he watches Mickey chewing with his mouth open, clutching his beer with grubby hands and dirty fingernails, looking like everything Lip ever wanted to drag all his brothers and sisters far, far away from.

"If you talked to him," Mickey says with practiced nonchalance, giving it away that this is something he'd planned in advance to say, "He might actually listen. He don't listen to me when I bring it up. But, you…he listens to what you tell him."

"Yeah," Lip scoffs, "Ian hasn't given two craps about anything I've had to say since he was fifteen."

"Think you'd be surprised about that," Mickey remarks.

"Right," Lip says, dragging a fry through his ketchup, "Really took it to heart when I tried talkin' to him about that award. 'Mind your own business' and 'stay out of it' are real promisin' to hear."

"What award you talkin' about?"

Lip shoves the fry in his mouth and says, "The one at work. Where they wanna help him get a degree and promote him."

Mickey is just sitting there with his jaw dropped then he says in disbelief, "Fuckhead never said a word to me."

Lip is about to say 'Yeah, well, that's Ian,' but he stops himself. He finally has something on Ian that Mickey doesn't know. Lip can't help but pull this weapon from its sheath and admire it a bit, give Mickey a little poke with it.

"He told  _me_ ," Lip says instead, feigning surprise, "Wonder why he didn't say anything to you. It's a pretty big deal."

Mickey's frown continues to deepen and Lip recognizes that dismay. It hurts to find out Ian keeps things from you, that Ian doesn't trust you enough to share big things about his life. And it hurts to think he's chosen someone else to confide in.

Lip twists the knife just a tiny bit more, "Keepin' secrets from your husband, that can't be good."

Mickey is silent, and Lip tears into his catfish, pretending not to notice Mickey's uneasiness. When the bartender comes by, Lip accepts a third scotch though Mickey waves off the offer of another beer.

It feels a little like the scotch doing the talking when Lip says, "What's Ian even getting out of this whole arrangement if he can't tell you shit? Or go out and have the kind of fun he wants to? Or even think about having a fuckin' goal again and gettin' outta this shithole? You must be offerin' up the best cock in Chicago if that's all that's keepin' him here. Pretty sure he could get it elsewhere—he's not bad-lookin', right?"

Mickey eyes Lip, then carefully composes himself, restoring his usual smarmy expression.

"All right, Gallagher," Mickey says, "Let's get this over with. Do what we came for."

"Okay," Lip agrees, downing half his glass in one ridiculously cocky gulp that he immediately regrets.

"We're here to get this all out on the table, right?" Mickey says and folds his arms across his chest, "So, tell me. Why you got it in for me?"

Lip sniffs. "You really wanna do this?"

Mickey replies only with his eyebrows.

"All right," Lip says, "Aside from the fact that you beat the shit out of me on multiple occasions growing up—"

"Sure I wasn't the only one."

"Aside from that, I think you're the worst thing that ever happened to Ian."

Mickey rolls his eyes. "You don't know shit."

"I know that you're a Milkovich. And I know that you're scum." Lip sets down his glass and continues, "I know that everything you do is illegal and dangerous as hell for Ian to get wrapped up in. I know that I go to bed every night wonderin' if tonight's gonna be the night I get the call that he's been hauled off to Cook County 'cause of somethin' you did. And I know when that happens, it's gonna be really fuckin' bad for him."

Mickey is glaring ahead toward the marbled mirror behind the bar. He doesn't look at Lip as he asks, "Why you goin' on like you give a crap? This an ego thing with you? Pretendin' like you're the big, bad brother lookin' out for him? Where the fuck were you this winter?"

Liam in his hospital bed. Fiona barefoot and curled up and crying at the gas station. Ian motionless in the bed in that house. Debbie crying on Lip's shoulder in the Gallagher's kitchen. Carl ripping Ian's camouflage sleeping bag to shreds with the knife Ian had given him. Ian not moving when Lip tried to talk to him, looking more and more like Monica by the second. Fiona whisper-arguing with Mickey about the clinic. All those whores just standing around staring like it was a school pageant. Mandy acting like putting her hand on Lip's shoulder was gonna make anything remotely better at all…

Lip can't speak he is so rattled. He doesn't like thinking about this past winter because he still doesn't know how the fuck he barreled through it. It was the one time in his life his came closest to giving up. It was the one time in his life he ever understood how a person could decide that stepping onto the el tracks was a better option than…anything else.

Lip takes a sip of his whiskey to steady his unease and tighten the reins a bit on his anger.

"I fucked up," Lip says, surprised to hear himself say it, "For once in Ian's life I wasn't there for him, okay? I fucked it up."

Mickey gives a humorless laugh. "For once? For once, asshole? Where the fuck were you when all those old guys were molestin' his underage ass? Or was that when you were tryin' to take West Point from him? Just to show off that ya could? Or when you were tryin' to go off to college and pretend you didn't have a family, didn't have anyone who needed lookin' out for?"

Lip furrows his brow, uncertain if it's Mickey's words or the whiskey or all the anxiety this has unleashed in him, but he's very confused. Take West Point from Ian? When the hell did Lip ever try to do anything but help Ian get there? And who are "all those old guys"?

"You mean Kash and Lishman?" Lip asks without even really thinking about it. He's just desperately trying to get the logic in order here.

Mickey snorts like Lip is joking and asks, "Gonna let that happen to Debbie next? Or she don't count neither? Halvsies don't count? Gonna just cart her up to the North Shore and try and pawn her off on that asshole too?"

"What are you talkin' about?"

"I'm talkin' about you lettin' him rot all those weeks he was sick then turnin' around and actin' like I'm the one who's no good for him. Where the fuck were you when I was talkin' him into walkin' to the fuckin' bathroom? Where the fuck were you when Iggy and I were carryin' his skinny ass down to the clinic? Where the fuck have you ever been for him?"

Mickey shakes his head and jabs a finger at Lip as he repeats, "You don't know shit."

And suddenly Lip's anger has made everything in his brain quite clear again. He sits up straighter and says to Mickey, "I know that you're the reason that he ran away. God knows what happened to him there. I know that's on you."

Mickey appears caught off guard by this as he says, "It wasn't like—Man…you don't know shit. You don't—you don't know fucking anything about it."

"Oh, Ian told me," Lip says lightly, "About your daddy walkin' in on you two. How you had to go knock up that Russian hooker because you were too chickenshit to let him think you were still gay."

Mickey doesn't seem to be breathing. He is frozen and waxy-looking. It seems like a struggle for him to speak when he finally manages to say, "Ian didn't tell you that."

"Ian told me everything," Lip assures him, "He told me how you were a coward."

"You don't know…" Mickey whispers.

"Oh, I don't know," Lip says mockingly, steamrolling right over Mickey's creepy stillness, "I know that you're no good for my brother, but for some reason he thinks you're all he's got and you're the best he's gonna do. I know that he wasn't broken before he hooked up with you. I know I've been watching him fall apart ever since."

Lip drains the last of his whiskey, glad that Mickey still hasn't found any voice to argue with. It gives Lip a second to gather up full steam.

Lip sets the glass down with a clink and says, "I know that you took my brother away from me. And you fucked him. And you broke him. And you can do everything in the world to try and make up for that, try and look like you're lookin' out for him, takin' care of him, whatever. You can do everything, but it's never gonna fix what you did. And I'm not forgiving you for that."

Mickey is staring at Lip, eyes wide, and Lip could swear Mickey's lips are trembling, like he's about to tear up, or something.

"I didn't break him," Mickey manages to say.

Lip takes his eyes away from Mickey's stupid face and mutters, "You break him, you buy him."

Then Mickey sniffs with false amusement. "Oh, I broke him, huh? I did that, huh?"

"Well, who else did?" Lip replies.

Mickey leans in, like he's about to share a secret or cut a deal with Lip and whispers, "How many times you let Frank go after him, huh? Yeah, Carl told me 'bout that. Kind of a brother are you, lettin' Frank knock his head around like that? You think that didn't do nothin'? I read up on this shit. That stuff's all responsible for settin' this shit off. It all adds up. All the balls you dropped before I ever came along."

Lip stares down into his empty glass, seeing in his mind's eye all the bloody lips, the broken noses, the black eyes, the dislocated little shoulders all covered with freckles. Ian was the punching bag; they all knew that. They also all knew that there was nothing Lip could do about it. And they also all further knew that Lip failed Ian every fucking time.

"How 'bout the time with the bat?" Mickey whispers, "Ian sure remembers that."

And there it is. Lip can still see him, all of seven years old, pleading with him,  _"Just do it. It doesn't matter if you hit me. You're the smart one. Just do it."_  Frank had been on something weird all week that made him sadistic and scary in a way they'd never seen. He was withholding the grocery money, insisting that 'Clayton' needed to learn a lesson first and that Lip had to learn not to be so soft. They'd been eating ketchup and mustard for two days, and Frank had money for them right there. All Lip had to do was swing. Fiona was with the kids at the clinic for Carl's 18 months shots. Monica hadn't been up in days. No one would ever know.  _"Just do it, Lip. I don't care."_  So Lip had swung, half-heartedly, barely tapped his brother. But Frank had insisted,  _"Swing like you mean it. Can't learn anything from that."_  Lip swung the bat like he meant it. Ian went down like a dropped marionette.

"Why didn't you use the bat on Frank?" Mickey asks in that same conspiratorial whisper, "Not so smart after all, huh?"

But Lip did use the bat on Frank. Maybe Ian doesn't remember that part—how could he? Lip used the bat on Frank until he begged for mercy. Or maybe Lip just made that part up.

"You think you're such a good brother," Mickey chides.

Lip smiles cruelly and shakes his head. The words are out of his mouth before he can stop himself:

"At least I didn't let my dad fuck my sister."

Lip is off his stool and on his back quicker than he can realize what's happening. Mickey gets in several (Three? Four? Fifty?) dead-on punches, causing the lights to fade in and out, before the both of them get tossed out of the bar. Blood is pouring from Lip's mouth as he stumbles onto the sidewalk and lands on one knee and topples over.

"You're a piece of shit, Gallagher!" Mickey is hollering as he kicks Lip in the ribs, "Fuckin' piece of no good fuckin' shit!"

Lip just lies there on the sidewalk until Mickey backs off, muttering something to himself, and the pain starts to really register. But then Mickey's hauling Lip up by the collar and putting his face right up to his.

"This never happened, ya hear me?" Mickey says, "You don't say a goddamned word about any of this to Ian."

Lip grins, blood spilling over his teeth all warm and metallic, and he chokes out, "Swing like you mean it."

Mickey continues holding him, and Lip watches as Mickey's face shifts from anger into gradual disgust.

"Ian ain't the crazy one," Mickey tells him and drops him to the ground.

* * *

It's far too early in the morning when Kuz lets himself into the dorm room. Lip can tell by the sound of his careful steps and the way he presses the door shut quietly that he's trying not to wake Lip up.

This is all spoiled when he steps between their beds and cries out in disgust, "What the hell's all over the carpet?"

Kuz switches on the overhead light as Lip rolls over painfully.

It takes a second before Kuz can draw his eyes from the puddle of blood on the carpet up to the horror that is Lip's face.

"Holy crap," Kuz says, "Are you all right?"

"I'm gonna need ya to talk notes for me in Stats today."

Kuz continues to stare at him but manages to nod his head slowly.

Lip starts to pulls the covers back up then he pauses and asks, "Can you do somethin' else for me too?"

"Yeah," Kuz says, "Sure. What?"

"Next time I say I'm going home for a bit, remind me about this."

Kuz nods dumbly, then takes a roll of paper towels off his desk and starts blotting up the blood.

Lip knows he should help, but he feels like he's got jackhammered concrete where his brain should be. He oozes back under the covers and loses himself to blessed darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much, much thanks to Avalonia320 for her incredible beta work, patience, and good advice.
> 
> And much, much thanks to everyone who's been reading along, commenting, and kudos-ing. Your support is tremendously appreciated. Thank you so, so much.


	4. Of Golden Geese and Golden Eggs

Lip lays low for a few days and tries to just keep focused on all the projects he has due with midterms coming up, despite feeling a little sorry for himself. Nobody inquires about his injuries. Maybe they just expect that shit to happen to the work-study guy from the shitty neighborhood. But even his two friends here don't bother. Amanda just laughs when she sees his healing face and doesn't ask for any details. Kuz doesn't push it either. Lip doesn't care; it's just another reminder that nobody really gives a shit, and he's only got himself to rely on. It's good to reestablish that fact every once in a while, helps him keep things in a realistic perspective.

He doesn't hear from anybody back home until he gets a text several days later from Fiona:

_How'd the playdate go?_

Lip doesn't bother to respond. Fiona must get distracted by other things because she doesn't send anything again until she texts the next morning asking if he can possibly spot her $40 for the gas bill. Lip's actually got the forty bucks for once, but for some reason, he can't help but be petty. He texts back:

_Why don't you ask Ian?_

He doesn't hear back from her. That ticks him off a little, and he determines not to think about his family for the next week at  _least_. Fuck 'em. This lasts exactly two hours before he's on his way out of his Speech class and happens upon Ian.

It's not Ian's lunch hour, but he's obviously not working. He's sitting on a bench with a thermos and that stupid Stephen King book again. He looks concerned as he spots Lip.

"What the hell happened to you?" Ian asks as Lip approaches, giving Ian a better look at the damage.

Lip shrugs. "Waved a red flag in front of the wrong bull."

Ian appears impressed as he inspects Lip's injuries. "Shoulda called me if you were in trouble with someone," Ian says, "I woulda backed you up."

Lip pictures that for a moment, he and Ian taking on Mickey just like they never got to back in high school, and it certainly gives him a bit of pleasure. But then the guilt creeps in because that's not what Ian's picturing at all.

Eager to change the subject, Lip asks, "You run out of things to clean, or what? Need me to go scuff some floors?"

"Union-mandated break," Ian replies, "Get 'em every two hours."

"Sweet."

"I'm not complaining."

Lip expects Ian to return his attention to his book but instead Ian pauses a moment, as if considering something then asks, "You know anything about tiling?"

"What, like puttin' down floor tiles?"

"Wall tiles."

Lip knows nothing about wall tiles, but he says, "A little."

"Wanna help me tile a wall tonight?"

"That in your contract?"

"Not here," Ian says, "At home."

"What did Carl do now?" Lip asks, already envisioning some attempt to blow something up in the bathtub gone wrong.

"No," Ian clarifies, "At  _my_  home."

"Oh." Lip ignores the nagging heart prick at the fact that Ian would refer to the Milkovich house as his  _home_. But Lip can't help but be a little stunned that Ian appears to be inviting him over there, let alone inviting him to do anything at all. He can't recall the last time Ian made any overture at all.

"Mickey gonna be there?" Lip asks, his bruises aching at the thought.

"Nope. Just me and Yevgeny."

It takes Lip a second to remember that Yevgeny is not one of the Milkovich brothers. Hiding his relief at this, he says, "He not big enough to help you out with house maintenance yet?"

"Not quite."

"What a baby."

That stupid joke actually gets Ian to crack a smile. Lip feels a surge of triumph.

"Sure, I'll give you a hand," Lip says, "What time?"

"Seven?"

"Sounds good. I'll bring the beer."

Ian seems pleased but also uncomfortable, like he's suddenly gotten nervous and is trying to cover it up. He glances at his watch and rises.

"Gotta clock back in," he says. He tightens the cap on his thermos then lays it beside his book on the top of his cart. "See you tonight, then."

"Sure."

Lip has to stop himself from telling Ian 'thank you' as he walks away because that would be idiotic and awkward. Still, Lip feels a strange giddiness as he continues on and meets up with Amanda on their way to the class they both take together. She picks up on this change in his demeanor immediately.

"What are you so happy about?" Amanda asks.

"I'm happy?"

"You're all smiley. It's a little creepy."

"Ian asked me to hang out," Lip explains, feeling self-conscious and stupid as he says this.

"What? You relieved that he doesn't totally hate your guts?"

"Pretty much, yeah."

Amanda actually gives him a rare smile at this. As they pass by the coffee cart and the bookstore, she asks, "When does he want to hang out?"

"Tonight."

"What about study group?"

Lip shrugs. "I can skip a night."

She frowns and nudges her glasses up on the bridge of her nose. "Can you? Aren't you on the border of a C?"

Lip stops in his tracks, annoyed because she's right and this has spoiled the upturn in his mood. He really  _can't_  afford to miss the study session tonight. And yet he's already certain there's no way he's not skipping out on it.

"You need to cool it with the micromanagin', okay?" he says, "I'm a big boy. I'll figure my own shit out."

He half-expects this start a fight and, in a way, he's gunning for it, but Amanda just gives him a thoroughly unimpressed look.

"What?" he demands, "Why're you lookin' at me like that?"

"I just don't understand why you're always so cute while making poor choices."

Amanda takes a step closer, reaches out, and discretely fondles Lip's dick through his pants, completely ignoring all the students walking around them. Lip forgets about the other students too for a second. Oh, Christ.

"Mystery of the universe," she murmurs, abandoning his crotch and resuming her normal path to class.

After a brief moment of confusion and lingering pleasure, Lip regains his senses and hustles to follow her.

* * *

Lip spends far too long at Osco picking out what beer to bring that night. In a way, it feels a little like a date. He really wants to please Ian, not make him regret reaching out like this, but Lip also doesn't want to make it weird. It definitely feels a little weird, though.

Ian used to prefer Old Style when they had the chance to choose, but Lip is leery about bringing such a cheap beer. It doesn't seem terribly generous, and he imagines Ian and Mickey have a shit ton of it in their fridge already. It'd be nice to bring something a little better, something Ian probably wouldn't buy for himself. But each more expensive beer Lip considers just seems douchier than the last. He doesn't want to open himself up to any 'college boy' ribbing, even though he's tempted by the Daisy Cutter, Fat Tire, and Goose Island specialty brews. He's had them with friends from school; they're really fucking good, make Old Style taste like the piss it is. But, he decides, they're too douchey by half. So he grabs a six-pack of Miller High Life instead, just to mix it up a little without getting too pretentious.

At the last minute, Lip darts into the Popeye's across from the el stop and picks up a box of chicken and biscuits, always Ian's favorite. Lip gets onto the train with the beer and the chicken feeling pretty secure in the knowledge that his Brother of the Year award notification should be arriving in the mail any day now.

When he gets to Zemansky, Lip knocks and waits and tries not to think about Mandy. When he tries not to think about Mandy, though, he thinks about seeing Ian sick here during the winter. Or coming here and trying their damnedest to keep Ian from sinking that low again this summer. Or even sneaking into the house with Ian what seems like a lifetime ago and getting caught by that fuckhead Terry Milkovich. When he tries to think about anything else, all Lip can find are awful memories. He hates this fucking house.

He knocks again harder this time and sets down the beer because it's getting annoying to hold and apparently no one's ever gonna answer.

Lip is just about to pound on the door again when Ian throws it open, looking distracted. "Sorry," he says, and Lip can hear the baby wailing from one of the bedrooms.

"It's okay," Lip says, stepping inside. He reclaims the six pack then turns to hold up the Popeyes box for Ian's approval, but Ian's already disappeared into the back of the house.

"Gimme a minute," Ian calls over his shoulder, "Sorry."

"It's okay," Lip says again even though Ian probably can't hear him. Lip pulls the door closed and stands there for a moment in the vestibule. Then, uncertain what else to do, he takes the beer and chicken into the kitchen.

He can hear Ian in one of the back bedrooms, talking nonsense to the baby as he changes him, and it sounds like it might still be a few minutes, so Lip opens a bottle of beer and has a look around. The whole house always feels like it's listing to one side, even when you're standing perfectly straight and sober. It still feels like that, but the place does seem cleaner and more organized than he remembers. It's still a shithole, but maybe having all those whores around has brought a woman's touch, or something.

Ian emerges from the hall with Mickey's kid on his hip and bypasses Lip, plopping the baby into the high chair.

"Want something to eat?" Ian asks as he washes his hands in the sink.

Lip's about to reply when he realizes from the tone of Ian's voice that he was talking to the baby.

"Hey, I brought Popeye's," Lip says as Ian takes a jar of applesauce from the fridge.

"Oh," Ian says, "Cool."

Lip sits uselessly at the table while Ian feeds the baby. Lip makes blowfish faces over Ian's shoulder, but the baby only has eyes for Ian. Or Ian's applesauce, anyway. After a bit of this, Lip fetches one of the beers for Ian and brings the chicken over from where he'd left it on the counter.

Ian finally turns to Lip while sipping his beer. "That guy really did a number on your face," Ian says, "You want me to sic Mickey on him? He'd make him look worse."

The baby starts squawking, brining Ian's attention back to him.

Thankfully, this gives Lip a second to maneuver himself out of this awkward conversation. He opens the Popeye's box and takes out a piece for himself.

"Have some chicken," he tells Ian.

Ian nods but remains distracted by the baby for a bit longer. Eventually, it seems like the baby's reached max capacity on applesauce. After Ian's wiped the both of them off with a damp dishcloth, he gives the kid a plastic cup to bang on the tray and helps himself to a biscuit. The baby squeals and reaches out for the biscuit. Ian appeases him, tearing off a piece and putting it on the tray. The baby puts it in his mouth experimentally, then spits it back out. Then he amuses himself smashing it around the tray.

"That's good shit, Yev," Ian says to the kid, reminding Lip of his name, "Shouldn't waste a Popeye's biscuit. That's like gold."

Lip smiles at this and pushes the box toward Ian encouragingly. Ian consents to eating a drumstick, but when he finishes that he tosses out the bones and goes to wash his hands again.

"That's all you're gonna eat?" Lip asks.

"I already had dinner," Ian says, "Mickey'll eat the rest when he comes home."

"Yeah, but I brought it for you. Will you at least eat it later?"

"Sure," Ian replies, taking up his beer, but it's clear to both of them he's lying.

"What the fuck, man," Lip says, uncertain why he's getting so upset about this, "This used to be your favorite."

"Sorry," Ian says, busying himself again with Yevgeny, "I just need to be really careful. I've put on six pounds already since I started this new medication."

"Dude, you probably needed it," Lip tells him, feeling dismayed. After the first round of medications, all those ones that ended up being worthless, Ian lost a lot of muscle, and that didn't leave him with much else. He'd looked really bad there for a while. He's been looking steadily better since, though he still wears a ghost of that time, to Lip's eyes.

"Yeah, well, I don't need anymore," Ian says, lifting Yevgeny from the highchair, "Nobody wants to see that."

"Who the fuck's lookin?" Lip asks, but Ian is conveniently distracted with Yevgeny and doesn't answer.

Lip hates it when Ian says shit like this. Over the past year, he's made so many offhand comments about needing to look better, not looking good enough. It seems different than the way Ian used to talk about building up his physical capabilities. Lip can't remember him ever having been so vain. Lip had thought for a while it must be a gay thing, this need of Ian's to look like an H & M mannequin at all times, but Lip's met more gay guys since he's been at college and they're not all like that, and Mickey certainly doesn't seem to be like that. Now Lip wonders if it isn't just a weird Ian thing. But it worries Lip.

All his life, Ian was a beanpole of a kid, all elbows and knees and pipe cleaner limbs. It was yet another thing that made him seem especially vulnerable. Monica had been the one who started all the fussing that Ian was too skinny when he was little, and Fiona had carried on the tradition of worrying even though they all knew Fiona was probably too thin herself; Fiona was always the last to eat. But even when Ian proved himself tough from grade school on, he'd still had a tendency to look like an athletic little skeleton. Lip couldn't ever quite shake the assumption that Ian required extra padding from life and that sturdier Lip had a duty to act as Ian's bubble wrap.

That last year at home, though, sixteen into seventeen, Ian seemed to mature overnight into someone substantial. He grew taller, broad in the shoulders, his muscles solidly stacked. Standing beside him only underscored Lip's own stalled transition, crapped out at "sturdy shrimp" just like fucking Frank. It would've been absurd to worry about Ian then. Anyone could look at him and see he could take care of himself. It was a relief.

But when Ian came back, that bit of reassuring bulk had been whittled away. Lip had blamed it in retrospect on the mania, Ian's body furiously burning through every last drop of fuel he had. Once the mania passed, when Ian was supposedly healthy again, Lip thought Ian would transform back to that action hero, that guy nobody was gonna mess with. Instead he's seemed determined to linger on in this weird fashion model body.

"Just…just don't let that be a reason you stop taking your meds," Lip says, trying to put a logical worry to the uneasiness this whole thing brings up in him.

Ian looks offended. "I wouldn't do that," he says, "I'm just saying I have to be careful. Work harder."

Lip sips his beer and makes himself keep quiet. He doesn't know how many times in his life Ian's solution to a problem was that he just had to work harder. Sometimes Lip can't help but want to tell him to just chill the fuck out. Not everything is made better by charging at it 50 miles per hour.

"So, tell me about this wall," Lip says.

Ian seems grateful for the change in subject. He shifts Yevgeny on his hip and points toward a big box and a sawhorse in the corner of the kitchen.

"There's a wet saw," he says, "Borrowed it from a guy at work. Guess we can use that to cut any end pieces we need to."

"Okay," Lip says, "Maybe keep the little guy out of the kitchen, then, huh?"

Ian gives him a look and Lip smiles back at him.

Ian takes up his beer and indicates for Lip to follow him down the hall, saying, "I'll show you what we're doing."

Lip follows Ian down into the tiny bathroom. There are tools and buckets piled up everywhere, so much so that it's difficult for the two of them to even stand.

The front wall of the shower is different from the other two walls as Ian shows him. There are no tiles on this wall, for one thing. It's also very obviously been recently sheetrocked.

"What happened?" Lip asks.

"Plumbing leak," Ian explains, "Had to tear it all out to fix it. Iggy's got a friend who does drywall; at least we got that part covered. But we've just been keeping an old shower curtain taped up over it since. Keeps falling down. Really annoying."

Ian steps back from the shower to point Lip toward a box of 4" x4 " white tiles behind the toilet. Yevgeny follows his lead and points too.

"Svetlana found these in that house on the corner—the one they started flipping then just left?"

Lip nods. He knows the house. It had been the joke of the neighborhood, some assholes from LaGrange thinking they were gonna rehab that shithole then flip it and make any money at all. All the copper had been stolen twice before they finally gave up and walked away on it.

"So, anyway," Ian says, "Mickey won't be home until late. Thought I'd surprise him. Got the tools and stuff from a guy at work, got some mortar, some grout. Watched some Youtube videos. Doesn't seem that hard, right?"

Lip looks over the mess, notes the shattered medicine cabinet mirror, the overflowing garbage can, the hole somebody's almost punched through the back of the door. This place is a miserable, depressing shithole.

"Sure," Lip nods, "Let's do it."

Ian keeps Yevgeny in a pack 'n play in the bedroom while they're working. It's an imperfect solution, though, because every time he and Lip get the process going, Ian has to keep leaving to attend to Yevgeny's cries and give him new items to keep him amused.

It's slow-going, but it's not bad. Lip's pretty sure he watched the same Youtube tutorials when he was giving himself a crash course in tiling this afternoon that Ian did, so they're actually both on the same page for a lot of it. They're also both stumped by the same issues. But, after several starts and stops, they manage to start getting the first row of tiles adhered to the wall, even making a couple of tricky cuts.

It takes almost two hours to get that point, but Lip doesn't mind. He's on his fourth High Life, singing along to the radio and enjoying himself, working side by side with Ian like old times. It's all very pleasant until they sit back to admire their first completed row and notice that it looks downright wonky.

"Why's it doing that?" Ian asks, running a finger along the warped line of tile, "The wall must be crooked."

"This whole fuckin' house is crooked, man," Lip says, "What'd you expect?"

Ian laughs at this. Then he sits back on his heels in hopelessness and mutters, "Shit."

Lip looks over the row of crooked but level tiles and thinks about it. "Maybe we can fix this," he says, "You got a compass?"

"Sure," Ian says and Lip recognizes a look that he hasn't seen in a long time, a look of admiration and complete trust that Lip always knows how to fix everything. As Ian steps past him out of the room, Lip feels happier than he has in ages.

Ian returns a moment later and hands him a small, round, Army-issued compass. Lip stares at it for a moment then smirks.

"I meant like a math compass. What the fuck did ya expect me to do with  _this_?"

Ian looks perturbed, but then he laughs again and says, "Figured I don't know how your brain works."

"I don't know how your brain works either, sometimes, swear to god," Lip replies. He sips his beer and says, "Well, now I know which way is North."

He passes the compass back to his brother, remarking, "Your survivalist training comes in handy once again."

Ian tucks the compass into his pocket and sits there looking pensive for a moment. Then he asks, "Is a compass the one with the pointy thing, or is it the plastic one?"

"That's a protractor," Lip replies, "Compass is the one with the pointy thing. For drawing circles and figuring angles."

"I think we actually have one."

Lip watches Ian disappear again then return swiftly with an honest to god compass.

"It was in the dart board," Ian explains as he hands it over.

"Sounds about right," Lip replies.

Yevgeny starts wailing and Ian leaves the bathroom once more to attend to him. While he's gone, Lip takes some measurements on the wall and on the tiles then he starts using the compass to draw some cut lines on the backs of the tiles. He's just about finished by the time Ian returns.

"Let me at that tile saw," Lip says, "I'm gonna make some angled cuts. Think it'll even things out a bit."

Ian looks hesitant. He inspects one of the tiles that Lip's made a pencil mark on and asks, "This the cut line?"

"Yeah."

"Let me do it. You've had too much to drink."

This irritates Lip. "So why assume I got the cut lines right, then?" he asks, "Might as well just forget the whole thing if you think a couple of beers interferes with my abilities."

"I trust you to do math," Ian says, "I don't trust you to use power tools. Can't really injure anybody with math."

"Oppenheimer injured a lot of people with math," Lip remarks. It's a stupid thing to say, but he can't help it.

"Well, he never sliced off his finger with it, though, did he?"

Lip can't really argue with that. He watches Ian gather up all the tiles that Lip has marked.

"Keep an eye on the baby," Ian says as he carries the tiles out to the kitchen.

Lip takes his beer and wanders into the bedroom where Yevgeny's pack 'n play is set up. The baby is standing up at the side, gnawing on the frame. He looks up at Lip with devious blue eyes. The kid's a dead ringer for Mickey, but somehow on a nine-month-old it's cute.

"How's it goin'?" Lip asks, sipping his beer. He could swear Yevgeny shrugs in response.

As the air compressor kicks in and the saw starts whirring in the kitchen, Yevgeny's placid expression melts into distress. He starts screaming.

Lip sets his beer on the dresser and scoops him up.

"Shhh, shhh," he says, holding the baby close to soothe him while simultaneously bouncing a little on the balls of his feet, "It's all right, buddy."

Yevgeny continues screeching and Lip starts walking him around the room. This seems to help a little.

As Lip bounce-walks and whispers to the baby, he inspects the room. There's a weird mixture of things that must be Mickey's and things Lip recognizes as belonging to Ian. The latter look out of place here, and Lip has an irrational desire to steal them all back and return them to their old bedroom.

He hoists Yevgeny up a bit higher and meanders around the unmade bed. He gazes disinterestedly at the crap on the nightstand—loose change, two or three Bic lighters, some receipts with notes scrawled on them, a bottle of antacid tablets—and one item catches his eye. Carefully, Lip uses two fingers to slide it out from under the coins and lighters.

It's a strip of pictures from one of those hipster photo booths. Lip recognizes the same brand name on it from one Amanda has of her and Lip from some wedding she dragged him to this summer. From the looks of it, Ian and Mickey also attended somebody's wedding this past June (there's a heart graphic printed at the top with 'Felix + Tate' and the date). Lip can't stop staring at the four sequential images. Aside from the first one where they're both making pseudo-serious grimaces, they look really happy in the pictures. Ian's fucking beaming. In the last photo, Mickey's caught mid-blink looking straight-on at the camera (he looks drunk), but Ian's looking at him like Mickey's…well, like Mickey's the greatest thing that ever could've happened to him.

Feeling like he's intruded on something very intimate, Lip drops the photo strip back on the table and walks Yevgeny back around the bed. The tile saw has ceased, but the kid's still squawking.

Ian pads into the room, wiping his dusty palms on his pants and takes the baby from Lip. Yevgeny stops fussing almost immediately in Ian's arms.

"Aw," Ian says to Yevgeny, "Was he pinching you? Was the ugly man pinching you?"

Lip rolls his eyes. "I'm gonna go have a smoke, all right? Then we'll get back to the tiles?"

Ian nods. As Lip leaves the room, Ian says to Yevgeny, "Was he telling bad jokes? They're never funny, are they?"

Yevgeny babbles back at Ian, probably talking shit about Lip.

Out on the front stoop, Lip lights up and takes a seat. He smokes and shivers a little, even though it's pretty mild still for November. He thinks about those photos. It shouldn't feel so strange to have seen them. He knows Ian has his own life, knows he goes places Lip's never been to, hangs out with folks (who the hell are Felix and Tate?) Lip's never met. But it's still disarming to see such blatant evidence of this. There had been moments tonight when Lip was able to forget that any time or any problems had passed, and that felt good. But then there are all these reminders everywhere in this house that this feeling is just some sort of hallucinatory sensation. Ian's like a goddamned phantom limb.

Ian steps out of the house just then, carrying a baby monitor and a hoodie. He tosses the hoodie to Lip and sits down beside him.

"You got another one of those?" Ian asks.

Lip passes him a cigarette and lighter from his shirt pocket before slipping into the hoodie and asking, "You takin' it back up?"

Ian shrugs.

"So, you got Yevgeny in there pickin' up the slack?" Lip asks.

"Yeah," Ian replies, "He's doing the rest of the cuts on the saw. Probably gonna make 'em crooked as all fuck."

Lip laughs, picturing this. "He's a cute little guy," he admits.

Ian doesn't say anything to this. They smoke in companionable silence for a bit, then Ian asks, "You think Fiona's ever gonna have kids?"

Lip looks at him and asks, "Where'd that come from?"

"I don't know. Just been thinking about it lately."

"Why?"

"I don't know."

Lip waits because Ian does know; it's just taking him a bit to put it into words he's willing to share.

Eventually, Ian does start to talk, keeping his gaze directed out toward the street.

"You know, with Yevgeny and everything," he says, "I just keep thinking how much I want that for her. If she wants that. Maybe she doesn't. But if she does, I think we screwed that up for her."

"Ian, she's twenty-three. She's got plenty of time to go out and get knocked up if she wants to."

"We messed it up," Ian insists, "She shouldn't be stuck with Debbie and Carl and Liam for, what? The next fifteen years? At least? That isn't fair. How's she supposed to have a life? Why'd we ever let her do that?"

"We didn't have much choice," Lips says. He does not like thinking about all that Fiona has given up for them, and it's irritating that Ian's bringing it up in this 'poor Fiona' capacity. Fiona made her own choices and she made her bed to lie in. It's pointless to fret about it. Lip can't stand this retroactive hand-wringing business about shit that's already happened. There is nothing to be gained from it.

"It's not fair," Ian says.

"What the hell is?" Lip snaps, "You think it's fair you're here, babysittin' some random kid, livin' in this house, workin' that shitty job?"

Ian gives him a sidelong glance then says in a low voice, "He's not 'some random kid.' Don't call him that."

"Well, he's not yours," Lip says, "I know you wish he was. But he's not. And you better remember that. Because you don't have any control over what happens to that kid. That's all between Mickey and that whore. You got no say in it, and they're sure as fuck not gonna stop and worry about what you want when this weird-ass domestic situation you've got worked out right now goes bust. One or the both of them, they'll take him and they'll split. So don't go gettin' attached. Save all this Daddy shit for your own kids, all right?"

Ian takes a drag off his cigarette and says plainly, "It's the closest I'm ever gonna get."

"Huh?"

"I'm never having my own kids."

Lip scoffs, "You're eighteen. How the fuck do you know what's gonna happen? You always wanted kids. Always. Remember that doll you had? The one from the Goodwill? What was his name?"

Ian scowls but answers, "Luther."

"Luther. Right. Named him after that fat guy down the street. God, you were a weird kid." Lip pauses to drag on his cigarette and he can still see Ian in his head, carrying that doll around the house with him everywhere. Fiona had given the doll to Ian in an attempt to comfort him when Lip started kindergarten and they were separated for the first time. Ian had been kind of obsessed with that doll until Debbie came along.

"But, see?" Lip continues making his case, "Even back then you loved playin' Daddy. You tellin' me Mickey comes along and that's it—it's off the table? Never ever gonna happen now?"

"It has nothing to do with Mickey."

"Then where's this coming from?" Lip demands, "This big proclamation that at eighteen you suddenly know you're never gonna be one of those fancy gay guys givin' your sperm to some chick with a check and pickin' up your order nine months later? Tell me how this has nothin' to do with Mickey."

Ian glances at him then shakes his head. "I'm not passing this shit on to some poor kid."

Lip is quite certain the horrible feeling in his chest is his heart breaking. Quickly, he scrambles to fix this.

"So, what?" Lip asks, "Because there's a chance one of your kids could turn out to need some mental health intervention, you're just swearin' off the whole thing? What about Fiona? You're so worried about her havin' kids. She's got the same Monica genes you do."

"Fuck," Ian whispers, clearly not having considered this. The probability has gotta be different, but Ian doesn't need to know this.

Lip continues on, encouraged. "So I shouldn't ever have any either? Avoid giving the world the gift of kids who might just turn out smart and good lookin' like me? How 'bout Debbie? You know she's gonna want a pack of them. Christ, Carl's probably out there makin' little bipolar babies as we speak."

"Jesus, Lip."

Lip puts his arm over Ian's shoulders and leans in to look at him directly in the eyes.

"Stop this," Lip says, "Stop acting like you know how everything's gonna turn out. You got no idea how you're gonna feel about things ten years from now. Shit, maybe they'll even have a cure for it by then. You have no idea what  _next_  year's gonna look like. You're always runnin' so far ahead. Just relax a little."

Lip pats Ian's chest and adds, "Stop overthinking everything. And stop making all these rules for yourself, okay? No need to hold yourself to a higher standard than the rest of the world. Nobody gives a fuck."

He drops his arm from Ian and stubs out his cigarette. As Lip does this, Ian glances at his watch.

"Mickey comin' home soon?" Lip asks.

"Nah, he won't be home 'til late. Wednesdays are really busy for some reason."

"Kickin' off the TGIF early, huh?"

"I guess."

Lip glances at Ian's profile in the moonlight. He's got tile dust smeared across his temple, and he looks tired. He's looked tired for the last year. Lip thinks about the expression on Ian's face in those photos, and Lip wonders if it isn't Mickey's hold on Ian that's helping to make him so tired, this idea that Mickey's his only shot at happiness, this constant pressure Ian puts on himself not to screw it up.

"You don't owe him anything, you know that?" Lip says.

Ian flicks ash from the end of his cigarette and doesn't look at him. "I owe him everything," he says, "I wouldn't  _be_  here without everything Mickey's done for me. Everything he  _does_  for me."

What a ridiculously paltry thing to be grateful for. Lip stops himself from saying the first three things that come to mind. He wants to reach out and steal Ian away from all of this, screw his head back on straight, wake him up to how much he's lost, how much Mickey has cost him…but the main thing Lip wants for tonight is for Ian to keep talking. Lip's missed his brother's voice so much.

So Lip tries to keep it helpful when he says, "I just mean…don't feel like you have to do everything for him. His kid is his problem. His house is his problem. His fuckin' fucked-up family is his problem. Okay?"

Ian shakes his head. "You don't get it at all," Ian says, "I don't do this shit because I feel like I  _owe_  him. It's not like keeping track of the register where it's gotta all even out at the end of the night."

"Then why're we doing this tonight?"

"I just wanted to do something nice for him, that's all. He's been really—" Ian cuts himself off and takes another drag off the cigarette.

"Been really what?" Lip asks.

Ian bows his head, like he's trying to avoid answering by hiding. Then he says, "I don't know. I think he's pissed at me about something. He's been weird lately."

Lip stiffens a little. "He, uh, say anything to you? About what's pissin' him off?"

"No," Ian says, "But I think he's getting sick of me."

"Well, fuck him, then," Lip replies.

"I tried that," Ian says. His eyes are amused as he takes the last drag off his cigarette.

"That's sick, man," Lip mutters, "Don't tell me that shit."

Ian laughs and stubs out the cigarette. "We gonna finish this?" he asks.

"Yup," Lip says, climbing to his feet, "Let's do it."

* * *

The tile work continues on for ages with multiple starts and stops to attend to Yevgeny. Lip's forgotten how hard it is to get anything done with a baby around and marvels at how long ago it feels since Liam was that age. Or Carl or Debbie. It had felt like those ages were never going to end, and now he barely remembers.

To Lip's great pleasure, though, Ian seems to be downright talkative while they work, despite all the interruptions. He doesn't talk about anything all that important—just tells a couple stories about guys at work then retells one that Mickey told him about something one of the whores did down at the Alibi—but Lip is thoroughly enjoying hearing them. Ian's said more to him tonight than he has in the past year.

For half a second, Lip worries that Ian's dipped into a manic phase, or something, but then Lip decides this fear is completely irrational; Ian's just let his guard down, acting like his old self. He used to do this once in a while when they were kids, just go off babbling about something, baseball plays or military maneuvers or whatever he was into at the time, and Lip would sort of just tune him out and let him go. Now Lip thinks that, had he known that Ian's voice would almost disappear entirely someday, Lip would've paid more attention. He tries to now, though. He listens intently, asks questions, urges Ian on.

"Anyway," Ian says, finishing his story as he presses another tile into the mortar, "That's what she did."

"That's pretty fucked-up," Lip says.

"Yeah," Ian pushes his tongue between his teeth as he straightens the tile out, then sits back to admire it, "You wouldn't believe some of the stuff that happens there."

"You ever hang out there?" Lip asks, "Get an eyeful?"

"Not my idea of a fun time."

"You don't help out, though? Give Mickey a hand?"

"Nah. Mickey doesn't really need it. Doesn't want me around there anyway."

"Seems kinda paternalistic."

Lip can see Ian consciously choosing to ignore this statement, as if he's just balled it up like a piece of paper and tossed it into the wastebasket.

Instead Ian says, "The angled cuts are working out really well. Looks all square now."

"Just simple math," Lip says, "Nothing special."

Ian reaches for the next tile and Lip seizes on the opportunity.

"You know," Lip says, "You don't even have to take that much math to get a degree. Depending on your major, you could get away with one, two classes tops."

The speed at which Ian's face hardens over with a protective layer is remarkable.

"Ian—"

"Don't."

"What?"

"Just, Lip…don't. Okay? Leave it. Please."

But Lip can't leave it. Lip can't ever leave anything. "I'm just sayin'—"

"Shhh!" Ian commands and Lip falls obediently silent as they both pause to listen.

Yevgeny isn't making a peep from the other room, though. Little bastard just screwed Ian over. Emboldened by this wee treachery, Lip strikes with a slightly modified weapon.

"It'd really make Mickey happy, wouldn't it?" Lip asks.

Ian hunches over and becomes suddenly engrossed in the next tile, testing the smoothness of its edges.

Lip starts preparing his following strike, but Ian surprises him and speaks first.

"Why's it such a big deal, anyway?" Ian mutters, "Why do you guys care so much?"

"Cause I don't think either one of us wants to see you rottin' away at that job for the rest of your life."

"There's nothing wrong with my job," Ian says, keeping his eyes firmly on the tile as he shoves it into the mortar then reaches for another one, "I show up every day. I do my work. They pay me. I don't hurt anybody. I don't break any laws. I just do my job, and I'm good at it."

"It's an idiot's job," Lip says, "Of course you're good at it."

Ian's hand is trembling as he places the next tile, paying no attention to the angled cut-line Lip had engineered. The careful row of tiles is thrown completely out of whack, and Lip scoots forward to fix it. Ian sits back in a huff as Lip pulls the tile out of the mortar, flips it, then repositions it carefully before pressing it back in.

Ian looks at Lip's handiwork and says to himself, "I can't even do that. I can't even handle a straight goddamn line."

"That's what I'm here for," Lip says, taking up the next tile and pressing it into place, "I'll make sure you don't fuck up."

Ian says nothing to this, just glares at the tiles.

So Lip continues guiding him, "I know you're worried about disappointing people, man, but you know how you really disappoint people? By not even tryin'."

Ian smiles like Lip has said something funny, even though there isn't any mirth in Ian's expression.

Lip backtracks, worrying that maybe he's hurt Ian's feelings. These days just getting out of bed is a sign that Ian's trying. Lip wants to show that he understands this.

"Listen," Lip says, "I know you're tryin'. I know it's a big fuckin' struggle just being normal and showin' up to work and all that shit. And nobody wants to push you, okay? If you're not ready, you're not ready. But I think and, uh, well, I think Mickey's thinks so too, that you've got a pretty decent brain still in there somewhere. And it'd be a shame to pass up a chance like this 'cause you're too scared to use it."

"I'm not scared."

"Aren't you? I mean, Jesus, Ian, why the fuck else would you let this go? Of course you're scared. We're all scared you're gonna fuck up. But that's why I'm sayin' let me help. I'll make sure you don't, okay? Just let me handle it."

Ian's doing that humorless little smile again and then he repeats, "I'm not scared."

"Yeah?" Lip asks, irritated now, "Then what's your problem? Why are you flat-out refusin' to lift a fuckin' finger to better your situation when everybody in the whole world is volunteering to help you?"

"I don't want to try," Ian replies.

"Why the hell not? Work harder, try harder, that's all you've ever done for everything. Why now is Ian Gallagher suddenly gonna get lazy?"

"'Cause I don't care."

"You care about everything."

"I don't care about this," Ian says with a shrug, "That's what great about it. I don't have to care anymore."

Lip turns from the wall to face him. "It's your life," Lip says, "How can you not care?"

"It's not my life. It's my job."

Lip has to set down the tile in his hand because he's concerned he's going to snap it if he gets any more frustrated.

"Your job has a pretty fuckin' big effect on your life, okay? Don't pretend you don't understand that puttin' in the work on this can make all of this—" Lip gestures wildly around the room, "A whole lot better."

"It's still not my life," Ian says.

Lip looks at him, puzzled.

"This wasn't any life I ever asked for," Ian explains, "I never wanted it. Why should I care?"

"Of course you care."

"No," Ian says with unnerving calm, "I care about Mickey. I care about Yevgeny. I care about you guys. That's it. I don't care about any of the rest of it. What I wanted is gone."

Lip stares at Ian. He looks so composed as he says this, like it's just a normal old fact.

"What do you think's gonna happen?" Lip demands to know, "That if you just wait it out, the Army's gonna forget about everything? That they're just gonna welcome you back, give you a gun and an officer's commission? That ain't fuckin' happenin', Ian."

"I know."

"That's all gone."

"I know."

"You blew it."

"I know."

"And even if you didn't do all of that," Lip continues, trying desperately to knock some reason into his brother's thick head, "Even if you never ran off to play Gomer Pyle, there's no way they'd take you now. You'd never pass those mental fitness tests."

"I know."

"Stop telling me you know!" Lip snaps, "Tell me you understand. You can't keep holdin' on to this stupid, bullshit GI Joe dream. If that's what's stoppin' you from doin' anything else, that's just…that's crazy, Ian. You're not that dumb."

"I'm not holding on to anything," Ian says.

As if on cue, Yevgeny starts screeching from the bedroom. Ian rises immediately to see to him, but Lip barks out, "Hey!"

Ian pauses in the doorway. "What?"

"Just…" Lip pauses, runs a mortar-encrusted hand through his hair and tries a last tactic, "Just think about if you got promoted what that money could do for Mickey and his kid. Think about how proud Fiona and Debbie'd be."

Ian gives no response before he departs for the bedroom. Lip gazes at the vacated doorway for a moment then reluctantly resumes tiling.

Lip does his best to concentrate on getting the tile up and not to think. He doesn't think about babies. Or baby dolls. Or the dreams upon dreams eliminated by one roll of the DNA dice and a couple of bad decisions.

Lip surely doesn't think about school, for him or for Ian, and how it's always been such a different thing for them and how it's never been fair. Lip doesn't think about how the hell he might find time to take on Ian's coursework for him if it comes to it.

This doesn't get Lip thinking about the fact that he has a reading quiz first thing in the morning that he's sure as hell gonna fail because he sure as hell isn't gonna have time to read through that whole chapter before class in the morning. He doesn't think about how late it's getting and how he's gonna be lucky if he gets back to campus in time to get an hour or two of sleep.

He doesn't think about any of it. Not a bit; No, Sir. Just uses that patented Lip Gallagher ability to hyper-focus on laying tile after tile after perfectly square tile.

And then there are no more tiles.

Lip steps back in surprise, taking in the sight of the finished wall.

It looks pretty good. Still needs grout and caulk and all that, but considering what the rest of the place looks like, this might just be the nicest wall in the whole damn house. Shit, it might be the best looking wall in the neighborhood.

Grinning to himself, Lip goes to fetch Ian so he can show off their work. Ian's been gone over an hour at this point—Lip's pretty sure he's using the baby as an excuse to pout. They're not in the bedroom, though, where Lip expected them to be.

Lip wanders down the hall into the living room. There he finds Ian passed out on the couch, baby in one hand, bottle in the other. Yevgeny's sound asleep too. They're both snoring.

Lip steps forward to shake Ian awake but instead just takes the bottle that's dipping precariously. He sets it on the coffee table then stands there uncertainly. He should probably take the baby, but he doesn't want to chance waking him. They both look really comfortable. Eventually, Lip decides to just let nature take its course and returns to the back of the house.

In the bathroom, Lip takes another moment to admire the perfectly straight-looking rows of tiles then gets to work mixing up the grout. He follows the directions on the box and it goes pretty smoothly.

It's gotten late by the time he finishes grouting and wiping everything down and still Ian and Yevgeny haven't stirred. Lip's getting bleary-eyed, but the job is so close to being done, he sticks with it. He's gotta allow some time for the grout to dry before he starts in on the caulk, so Lip keeps busy (and keeps awake) by cleaning up a little. He gets all the tile supplies out of the bathroom and into a fairly neat pile in the kitchen, wipes down and powers off the saw, packs it into its case. Then he returns to the bathroom with a bucket of clean water and a roll of paper towels to start cleaning up all the tile dust and blobs of mortar that seem to have found their way onto every surface. He fills the garbage can up three times before the room finally starts to look like it's no longer a construction site. If it weren't for the punched hole in the door, the broken mirror, and the general ghetto state of everything else, the place would look all right.

Lip's just got the silicone caulk loaded into the gun when Mickey comes home.

Instinctually, Lip lowers himself into a crouch in the bathtub, cradling the caulk gun like an AK-47 that's going to protect him when the enemy approaches.

Mickey comes nowhere near the bathroom, though. He doesn't seem aware that Lip's even in the house. He doesn't seem aware that  _anyone_  is around because he's chattering unselfconsciously. At first, Lip thinks that Mickey is talking to himself but then realizes that he's talking to Yevgeny as he carries him toward the back of the house.

"You keepin' him up again, Piglet? Thought we talked about that. Bed by eight. Ian gets his eight hours. Thought that was the agreement…"

Lip realizes he's holding his breath as Mickey passes by the bathroom and takes Yevgeny into the bedroom. Still, Lip can't bring himself to move. He remains crouched in the bathtub, caulk gun at the ready, listening to the sound of his own breath.

"Aw, stinky-stinky. Stinky-stinky," Mickey says in the bedroom as he changes Yevgeny's diaper, "What the fuck you get him to feed you tonight? Stinky Piglet!"

There isn't much sound for a bit after that and Lip surmises Mickey's putting Yevgeny to bed. Then Mickey pads back down to the hall to the kitchen and Lip hears the sink running, then the fridge open. The house is tiny. Everything can be heard from every corner. It makes the Gallagher house feel like an English estate.

"Hey, Ian," Mickey says, "You got Popeye's?"

Ian doesn't respond and Lip imagines he's still passed out. Then Lip hears Mickey's voice from the living room this time, softer.

"Hey. Hey, Ian. Get up, man. The girls'll be home soon. They're gonna grab your bed if you don't get it."

"Mmm, Mickey," Ian says in an odd voice that Lip recognizes as being his still half-deep-asleep voice.

In the bathtub, Lip can't help but smile. Ian has always had a strange propensity for talking while still mostly asleep. Lip and Carl used to giggle themselves to tears at some of the weird shit Ian would say in that state. He once told them all about a plan he had to build a third leg. They used to try and see how long they could keep him going, asking him question after question, before he either woke up enough to come back to his senses or just slipped into full sleep again. Their record was fifteen minutes.

Mickey seems familiar with this too since he's talking to Ian the same way Lip and Carl used to, using the same gentle, amused tone.

"Ian," Mickey coaxes, "Come on. Don't sleep out here. You'll be all sore in the morning."

"Mmm, Mickey," Ian says again, "You smell like Popeye's."

"I know I fuckin' smell like Popeye's. I'm eatin' it. Come on, Bullwinkle, on your feet."

"I love Popeye's."

"I know you do. Glad to see you eatin' some real food. Need a night off from the rabbit shit once in a while."

"I can't eat Popeye's."

"I know, man, it's late. Can't feed ya after midnight. Fuckin' Mogwai."

"I don't want to be like Craig."

"Who the fuck's Craig? Come on, put your arm over my shoulder. Come on. Ups-a-daisy."

Lip can hear the shuffling, stumbling sound of Mickey half-carrying, half-walking Ian toward the bedroom.

"If I end up like Craig, I won't have any money."

"Don't be like this Craig clown, then. He don't sound too bright."

"Don't go to rehab. Craig went to rehab. Then they  _fired_  him."

"Oh, that Craig," Mickey laughs as they reach the bedroom, "That they guy they fired from the club for not bein' hot no more?"

"He got  _fat_  in rehab."

"Yeah, all right. I remember now."

Lip hears the mattress squeak as Mickey deposits Ian on the bed.

"I'm so tired," Ian proclaims.

"I know. You ain't been gettin' enough sleep. We talked about this."

"Mickey's lecturing me again."

"Hey, I'm Mickey. Remember?"

"Mickey's worse than Lip."

"Jesus, will you can it already and go to sleep? And what the hell you got all over you? Plaster? What you been doin' all night?"

There's no more talking for a bit, just the sound of drawers in the dresser opening and closing. Mickey must be changing clothes. Lip realizes he's had several opportunities by this point to slip out of the bathroom and make a break for it, to get out of the house before Mickey catches him and goes for round two on his face. Lip's found himself unwilling to move, though, too fascinated. He's not sure what he had imagined Mickey and Ian to be like when they think no one's around, but it was not this. Of course he'd expected Mickey to treat Ian a little nicer than Mickey treats everyone else, but this tenderness has caught Lip off guard.

"I don't wanna get fired," Ian says, still half-asleep.

"Pretty hard to fire you if you don't work there no more," Mickey replies.

"Did I get fired?"

"You quit."

"I did?"

"Long time ago. Go to sleep, okay? Shut your yap and go to sleep."

"I can't be like Craig. What's Fiona gonna do?"

"You're not like fuckin' Craig. You're perfect. Now shut up and go to sleep."

"What does Fiona say about that?"

"Fiona says go to sleep."

"She's as bad as Lip. I'm moving in with Mickey."

"Yeah, do that," Mickey mutters, stalking into the bathroom in his boxers and slippers.

Lip catches his breath and crouches petrified, gun at the ready. Mickey doesn't see him, though, just kicks up the toilet seat and starts taking a leak.

Lip lowers his head in an attempt not to look, but Mickey catches the movement out of the corner of his eye and jolts back, getting pee on the floor and the side of the tub.

"What the  _fuck_?!" Mickey hollers.

Lip is surprised to find that he's pressed himself as far back against the wall as he can and is still holding the caulk gun out in front of him in defense. Slowly, he forces himself to lower the gun, though his heart is pounding and seems to have climbed up into his throat.

It's like a ventriloquist act with another Lip from another time controlling his voice as he hears himself say, "That's, uh, that's what you're rammin' my brother with, huh?"

Mickey does not look amused as he tucks himself back into his shorts and says, "What the hell are you doin' in my house?"

Lip gestures stupidly toward the gleaming new tiles that now strike him as ridiculously out of place next to the other two walls of cracked and mildewed yellow ones.

"Put up some tile," Lip says.

Mickey gives the tiles a look that implies they're crawling with cockroaches. "Who told you to do that?"

"Wasn't my idea."

Mickey stares at Lip for a moment, then he starts to call for Ian.

Lip cuts him off by reaching out a hand toward him. Mickey jerks away and Lip holds up his hands as best he can in a sign of peace while still juggling the gun.

"Let him sleep," Lip says, "I'm goin', all right? I'm gone. I was never here."

Lip steps gingerly out of the bathtub then pauses and gives the gun to Mickey.

"You need to caulk the seams," Lip tells him, "Then it's done. You know how that works?"

"I know how caulk works," Mickey says sardonically.

"Good. Then you got everything under control."

Lip walks past Mickey and down the hall toward the living room. Instead of turning for there, though, he enters the kitchen and takes out his last Miller High Life. He'll be damned if Mickey's gonna drink it. And then, emboldened, Lip marches right back to the bathroom where he finds Mickey inspecting the tile.

Mickey straightens up and it's clear from his expression he's gauging whether Lip's coming back for a fight.

Lip points the bottle at him and says, "Stop using Ian as your free twenty-four-hour daycare. It's fuckin' cruel."

Lip doesn't stick around to watch that register. He stomps down the hall and past the passel of whores who've just bustled through the front door. He shoves his way through the hoard and out onto the stoop where a couple hours ago he and Ian had been joking around like old times.

The sun is starting to rise, turning the sky a variety of Easter egg colors. Lip makes his way to the el, and the neighborhood has never looked more ugly.

* * *

Lip only ends up getting an hour to sleep before he has to be in the dishroom for the breakfast shift and he spends half that time trying to actually fall asleep. When he does finally sleep, he has a fucked-up dream that Ian and Mandy have had a baby, but it was born a baby doll. Lip keeps trying to point out to them that their child is plastic, but they ignore him. When he pulls the baby's arm off to prove it to them, somehow the doll cries and everyone gets mad at Lip. Mandy turns to him with so much disgust and she asks him, "Why do you have to ruin everybody's babies?"

Then his alarm goes off and Lip hits his head on the edge of the nightstand as his dives blindly for the clock.

The morning gets no better nor less painful. Lip suffers through work with a splitting headache and they play that damn Taylor Swift song four times before his shift is over. He's so tired that his usual defenses are debilitated and thoughts of Karen start drifting in unbidden while he works.

It's not so much Karen that he thinks about, though, it's her baby. Or not Karen's actual baby, not Timmy Wong's Downs Syndrome baby. The baby Lip thinks about today, the baby Lip thinks about more often than he would ever admit to anyone, is the baby he imagined was inside Karen all along—Lip's baby.

Most of the time when Lip has imagined what something or someone will be like in advance, it is immediately swallowed up by the whatever reality turns out to be. He'd had an idea of what Ronald Kuzner would be like before Lip met him, only based off his name on the roommate assignment paper, but that Ronald Kuzner had evaporated the second Lip met Kuz. That's how it always works. He'd had an idea of what Debbie and Carl and Liam would be like before they were born, but they all turned out to be completely different and immediately usurped their imagined anticipatory versions.

But Lip's baby—that's how he thinks of it—never appeared in the living world. Lip's baby never got replaced by Timmy Wong's kid. Lip's baby lingers on, haunting him in unexpected moments. Sometimes Lip still catches himself thinking of the baby as out there somewhere, off with a wealthy family in Lake Forest or Winnetka. Lip's baby is blond like him and Karen, and smart like him and Karen. Lip's baby will go to private school and eat organic food and probably be lazy because Lip's baby doesn't have to worry about things or about people depending on him and demanding great things of him. Lip's baby is nobody's golden goose. Lip's baby is the golden egg.

As soon as Lip realizes the ghost of his baby has returned, he startles to attention and shakes it off fiercely. He shoves all those thoughts (well, he tucks them gently—Lip is gentle with his baby) into the lead-lined box next to Karen and locks it and kicks it back into the deep, cold storage recesses of his brain. Then he marches over to the dish dryer and starts unloading the dishes. He is slow and methodical, letting his hands burn.

He sleepwalks through the rest of his shift, trying to focus on anything that is not important. He counts the dishes that he washes, counts the knives and spoons and forks that make their way down the belt. He even counts the wall tiles behind the sink before he scolds himself for where that leads. Fuck wall tiles. Fuck that house.

And then he cuts himself on a goddamn butter knife.

The blood, at least, is a reprieve. Lip watches it swirl into the water for a few seconds before he thinks to pull out his hand and staunch it. It isn't a big cut at all, just enough to bleed a little, but it's an excuse. He leaves the sink to get a paper towel, asks his boss for the First Aid kit. His boss helps him with the Band-Aid then dismisses him fifteen minutes before the end of shift.

Lip takes the unexpected time to slip back up to his room. It's not enough time to sleep, but it's enough time to have a drink and some aspirin, try to turn off the screaming ache in his head. He contemplates skipping class, but decides not to. Amanda's gonna be there.

Lip bombs his reading quiz, as expected. He's doubly annoyed because Amanda refuses to let him cheat off her, puts up her shoulder to block his view in a way that clearly implies that's what he was trying to do. Lip acts like he wasn't going to anyway, but he's offended as he stares at the asinine questions and commands himself not to write out a bunch of facetious responses. He puts down some bullshit instead, hopes for partial credit and then studiously ignores Amanda for the rest of the lecture.

But as soon as class lets out, he can't hold back.

"What's your problem?" he demands as they walk from the room.

"I have a problem?" she asks, "Tell me. What's my problem? That I wouldn't let you cheat off me because you decided to fuck off to the Southside and party last night? I have the problem?"

"I wasn't partying."

"I don't care," she says lightly, "What you were doing last night is of zero interest to me."

"Yeah, nothin' I do is of interest to you."

"Stop being such a child. It is not attractive."

Lip grips his books tighter and says nothing. Unfortunately, Amanda seems to take this as a signal that she should continue talking.

"Seriously," she says, "You need to grow up. You screw up, you make bad decisions, you need to own that. You need to deal with the consequences or just stop making bad decisions."

It takes all Lip's self-control not to launch his books down the hallway.

"You have no idea," he says tersely, "No idea what kind of shit I have to deal with."

Amanda tilts her head and says mockingly, "Oh, I think I'm pretty familiar with the Gallagher family sob stories. I'm quite well acquainted with your self-pity. I've had to listen to you drunk  _a lot_."

She turns to him and drops the bitchy smile as she adds, "That's not the point, though. The point isn't that you have shit to deal with. We all have shit to deal with. The point is how you handle it."

She's such a sanctimonious bitch. She likes to act like she's more cynical and above all that shit, but she's just as Oprah as everybody else.

"So, I fucked up on the school stuff last night, all right?" Lip says and then reaches for the guilt, "Help me out once in a while. I thought you gave a shit. Thought I could count on you."

"Whoa, whoa," Amanda says, "Hold up. You have counted on me plenty. And I've come through for you like a champ. You cannot complain about that. But I'm sorry. I will help you. Like I've helped you with everything this past year, but I draw the line at doing shit  _for_  you. I am not enabling your crappy choices."

Lip opens his mouth to protest this accusation, but Amanda keeps talking.

"No," she says, "Listen. The sex is good and you're cute and you've got a hell of a lot of potential, but I am not your fucking Geisha."

Lip rolls his eyes. "Don't turn this into a goddamn race thing. That's lazy."

" _You're_  lazy," she replies, "And you're an idiot if you think I'll just let you use me like that. I'm not one of your dumb hoodrats, okay? I am not here to make you feel big and smart and special."

"Then what the hell's the point?"

She takes a step back and looks him over, but Lip refuses to feel any regret about his statement. What the hell  _is_ the point of having her around if she just makes him feel like crap? He's got plenty of people doing that job already.

Amanda takes out her phone and checks her calendar app. Lip knows she's checking his schedule and it annoys him anew that she has access to it. Sure, she put it all together for him, but he didn't ask her to. He never invited her in to browbeat him and hover and nag. He never even fucking invited her into his bed. This is all her. Why the fuck does he keep sleeping with crazy chicks?

Amanda glances up from her phone and instructs him, "You have two hours before your lab," she tells him, "You should go get some sleep. You're at you're worst when you haven't slept."

"Fuck off," he says.

Amanda shrugs. She puts her phone away and says, "See you later," as if she doesn't care at all and walks away.

Lip turns so he doesn't have to watch her go. He does have two hours until his shift and he  _was_  planning on catching a nap, but now he's too pissed off. Kuz is in class right now, so that's no good. Instead, Lip goes in search of Ian. Ian is his best shot at a sympathetic ear.

It doesn't take Lip long to track Ian down—Lip knows his routine pretty well—and he finds him changing out garbage bin liners in a washroom in the Biology building. Ian seems puzzled but not displeased to see him. Lip feels warmed all over.

"Hey, what's up?" Ian asks, fluffing open a black garbage bag before sliding it into the receptacle, "You all right?"

"You wanna blow this off and go get some drinks?" Lip asks.

Ian seems to take this as a joke and not an actual suggestion. "What happened?" he asks.

"Amanda's being a cunt."

Ian nods patronizingly and this pisses Lip off a little. He wants Ian to engage, say something nasty about Amanda, but he's not going to. Lip hates it when Ian acts like Lip's romantic life is too stupid to even be worth discussing. Like Ian's anyone to act smug.

"Speaking of cunts," Lip says, "How'd Mickey like that tile?"

Ian bows his head slightly and focuses on marking some stuff of on a clipboard as he says, "Didn't really do the trick. He's still being weird."

"Can't ever make anybody happy," Lip commiserates, "Don't get stuck in that cycle of tryin'. Just stay focused on what's important."

"What's that?" Ian asks, moving onto the next garbage can.

"Huh?"

"What's important if you're not trying to make people you care about happy?"

Lip looks at Ian, unable to tell if Ian is joking or trying to make a point or genuinely asking.

"You," Lip says, "You are what's important. Don't worry about anybody else."

Ian nods at this advice then fluffs another garbage bag and asks, "You get any sleep at all last night?"

Lip shrugs this off. "Doesn't matter."

"Sorry," Ian says, "You should've woke me up to help finish it. I didn't mean to conk out on you."

"Eh, you needed it."

Ian makes a face at being coddled and concentrates on finishing up the last garbage can then moving on to refilling toilet paper dispensers.

Lip watches Ian and thinks about Mickey last night when he didn't think anyone else was home, how he spoke so casually and surely about Ian needing more sleep, needing to eat better. Lip had been sort of reassured by that, that Ian's heath was actually on Mickey's radar, but now the thought makes Lip a bit anxious. It probably means there are concerns Lip hasn't been made privy to. Lip sets aside his own irritation for the moment and decides to investigate.

"How you doin' lately?" Lip asks.

"Fine. How  _you_  doing?" Ian doesn't skip a beat in his practiced refilling of eight toilet paper dispensers in a row. He's definitely developed a rhythm to his work. Trust Ian to make this job look like it can be treated just like an elaborately regimented rifle drill. He even maintains perfect posture throughout.

"No," Lip says, "I mean, really. How're you doing? How you feeling?"

Ian looks back at him and Lip can see his hackles rising. This is veering dangerously close to off-limits talk.

Ian seems to reluctantly grant Lip permission to trespass, though, as he sighs and says, "My time's all shit."

"What do you mean?" Lip asks, horrified by the sound of this.

"Running," Ian replies, "My time's all shit these days. Fucking hate it."

Lip is relieved. "Who cares about running?"

"I do," Ian says plainly. He doesn't look up. It's like Lip's just insulted him somehow.

"That your meds, you think?" Lip asks, "Making you slow?"

"Yeah," Ian admits, marking down the toilet paper rolls on his supply checklist, "I got no energy or stamina on these. I'm just tired all the time."

"Well," Lip says, "It's a trade-off, right? Your mind or your feet. Probably too much to ask for both."

Ian shrugs and moves on to the soap dispensers.

Lip follows him, concern growing. "Any—anything else?" Lip asks, "You doin' all right? Other than the running bullshit? Any real problems?"

Ian shrugs again and keeps his back to Lip, his head held straight. Lip's been pushed off the property, the gates and doors all locked once more. Lip can almost hear the bolts turning. After everything they talked about last night, this is a disappointment. It's like Lip's being kicked back farther away than he started. After everything Lip did for Ian, all the good advice he gave him…is everybody but Lip taking part in National Be A Selfish Asshole Day?

"Hey," Lip says, trying to be reasonable and keep his eye on the important part, "I'm just sayin', don't go lookin' for excuses to stop taking your meds, all right?"

Ian turns then, and he looks irritated. "You said the same thing last night. Why do you keep thinking I'm gonna just go off my meds 'cause I don't like a side effect?"

"Monica," Lip replies, only realizing this is the truth as he says it, "She was always lookin' for some bullshit reason to stop."

Ian stares at Lip for a second, but then he returns his attention to his cart and starts rearranging it with extra dedication.

"Listen," Ian says, "I gotta get back to work."

"Oh, come on," Lip says, realizing Ian's been insulted, "Don't be such a pussy. You gotta know that Monica's gonna be our reference point for everything with you. You can't hold that against me."

Ian nods, still fussing with items on his cart, "That mean when I slit my wrists, you won't come see me?"

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Just using Monica as my reference point."

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Lip says, "Don't say shit like that."

Ian looks slightly chastened. He takes out a spray bottle and sponge and heads over to the sinks.

"Hey," Lip says, following Ian and willing his own voice to steady up despite the fact that it seems to want to come out all wobbly, "You're not…you're not really thinkin' about that kind of stuff, right? Havin' thoughts?"

Ian pauses and clasps Lip on the shoulder. "No," Ian tells him, "Everything's fine."

He gives Lip a big, reassuring smile then drops his hand from Lip's shoulder and proceeds to start spraying and wiping down the sinks.

Maybe it's because that ghost baby has been haunting him all morning, maybe Lip's still hung up on watching Ian playing daddy with Yevgeny all night, but Ian's hand on Lip's shoulder has caused him to recall a memory he's tried very hard to forget. They were all in the delivery room on Thanksgiving, watching Karen have her baby, Monica discarded somewhere else in the hospital.

Lip had been alone there. Well, alone with Sheila and fucking Jody, and he'd felt woozy and terrified. It was much more gory and real than he'd expected. Lip had thought for a moment he was going to pass out, like some dumb sitcom dad on TV. But then they'd all been there, his family back beside him, appearing from nowhere. Ian put his hands on Lip's shoulders and Lip had felt revived and stabilized. All that anxiety rapidly alchemized into thrill; it was the most exciting moment of Lip's life. He watched breathless as the baby crowned—his baby, Lip's baby, was finally entering the real world.

"You're a dad," Ian had hissed into Lip's ear, the only words Lip could make out from anyone amongst the chaos. Then Ian had laughed and squeezed Lip's shoulders tighter, murmuring, "I'm an uncle."

After months and months of Ian tearing Lip apart, telling him what an idiot he was, how he was ruining his life, how Karen and this baby were a trap, Ian was happy for him. Ian sounded as excited for this baby as Lip was. In that moment, Ian holding tight to Lip, all of them watching in petrified elation, in that moment before everything went to shit, Lip had thought, " _This is gonna be okay._ "

He'd had Ian behind him, supporting him. Of course it was gonna be okay.

Lip blinks, watching Ian now, brandishing a toilet brush and a bottle of cleaner, heading into a stall.

"Hey," Lip says, "You wanna get out of here? Let's play some pool. Forget about all this."

For the second time, Ian doesn't treat this as a legitimate offer. "Don't you have class in, like, an hour?" he asks, "Why don't you go take a nap?"

Lip's annoyance flares. Why the fuck does everybody think it's their business to tell Lip he needs a fucking nap like he's a fucking toddler? And why the fuck does everybody seem to have his schedule memorized? When did Lip's life become everybody's business?

Ian continues working, scrubbing the next toilet then the next. Lip's irritation grows as he watches him.

"You know," Lip says coolly, "Just 'cause everybody has to watch out for you like you're made of glass doesn't mean you get to act like I am too."

Ian keeps scrubbing the last toilet, doesn't turn back to face Lip as he says, "Do whatever you want, then."

He straightens up and flushes the toilet, returns the brush to the cart. He grabs a roll of paper towels and a bottle of disinfectant and starts wiping down the first of the stalls.

"Just stop bothering me while I'm trying to work," Ian says.

"What?" Lip sneers, "Am I throwin' your timing off?"

Ian juts out his chin and settles into the silent treatment.

Lip watches him a little longer, taking in the tension of Ian's brow as he determinedly sprays, wipes, sprays and wipes. What a futile job. The whole thing's for naught the second someone comes in to take a leak. Yet Ian still works at it like he's sterilizing a room for the boy in the bubble. Lip's never known anyone to waste so much energy on pointless shit. No wonder he's tired all the time.

"Yeah, I'm gonna go," Lip announces.

"See ya."

Lip narrows his eyes at the back of Ian's head once more, pockets the urge to kick him, make him lose his balance, interrupt his stupid, dogged rhythm. Instead Lip thrusts his fists into his pockets and heads out.

* * *

Lip sits outside and chain-smokes, killing time before his next class starts. He should be reading up on the class material since he didn't get to it last night, but he's too tired and too pissed off. He looks out across the dead, brown landscape of campus in November and tries to will the ghost of his baby to leave him alone, but it keeps hovering today, just out of eyeshot. So Lip lets himself brood on it and lets himself get mad in a way he hasn't in a long time.

It was supposed to be a relief, but it wasn't a relief at all—it felt like a gyp. All those months Lip had turned his life upside-down, tried to mold himself into something like a passable good father in that fucked-up situation, all that agony of not knowing what he was supposed to do, of having no control over any of it at all…every bit of it had been a waste the second they all got a look at the baby. Lip had nobody throughout it all, nobody on his side, and he'd had nobody afterward either. Ian, Fiona, Mandy, fucking Karen…not one of them had been anything but worthless and mean through the whole ordeal, and then after they all acted as if it had never happened.

At some point Lip realizes his class has started. He continues smoking until it's too late to bother going, then he finishes his cigarette and heads up to his room to finally grab that nap.

He's surprised when he gets to the room and finds Kuz sitting on the floor, blazing up.

"Hey," Lip greets him, throwing his backpack onto his desk chair, "What're you doin' here?"

"Flunked my Mandarin midterm," Kuz replies, "I am now officially failing two classes."

"Shit," Lip commiserates, though internally he's glad to not be in the same boat. He takes out his whiskey and offers to pour Kuz a cup, but Kuz waves it off. Lip pours himself a cup and sits down across from his roommate.

"I really got my work cut out for me if I wanna save this semester," Kuz moans, "I'm so fucked."

"Sorry."

Kuz passes the joint to Lip and asks, "So what're  _you_  doing here?"

Lip inhales gratefully and closes his eyes for a blessed, beautiful moment. Kuz's stash is so much better than Lip's.

"Amanda's being a bitch," Lip says after he exhales.

"What else is new?"

"And my brother's an ass."

Kuz nods. They smoke and drink in silence for a bit until Kuz speaks up, continuing as if there's been no pause in the conversation.

"What's the deal with you guys?" he asks, "How are you a student here and he's a janitor? You adopted, or something? He get dropped on his head?"

Kuz is amused like this is the funniest thing in the world to point out. Lip momentarily wants to slug him, wipe that idiot smile off his face, but he tamps down on that desire. Kuz doesn't know. Kuz wouldn't say shit like that if he had any idea at all.

Lip holds the smoke in as long as he can before he exhales and explains, "I passed the tests. He didn't."

"To get in here? You never mentioned he applied."

"No, no," Lip explains, taking another sip and remembering how badly whiskey and pot taste together, how the combination always makes him feel sort of sick, "Like, the tests to see if you're…how did they phrase it? 'Gifted and Talented.' Like in grade school."

"Gifted and talented," Kuz repeats, "Man, I knew you were gifted and talented the first time I saw you. I said 'Self, there is a guy who is gifted and talented.'"

Lip laughs at that. He sits back and takes another sip. This afternoon is finally getting a little better.

Kuz is still smiling and giggling as he marvels, "So your brother got declared officially 'not talented'? That's rough. Fuck the public school system."

Lip allows himself to drain his glass before he responds. The fun has evaporated, though.

"Ian's just got other talents. He can run a six minute mile," Lip says, "Or used to. Maybe not so much anymore."

Kuz snickers. "I can run a sixty minute mile."

Lip grins and leans back against the bed. He repeats something Frank had said after Ian didn't pass the tests, "We've all got our talents."

"Yeah," Kuz says, "Like how I have a big fucking dick."

Lip laughs and says, "I think that's more of a gift than a talent."

"It's how you use your gifts that makes you talented."

"You read that on a poster somewhere? Right next to 'Hang in There, Kitty'?"

Kuz giggles once more then gives Lip the rest of the joint and settles onto his bed to do his homework.

Lip finishes up the joint on his own, staring at the ugly pattern of the carpet, thinking about those tests all those years ago. If Lip had to point to an event where the first divide between him and Ian had been staked, it would have to be those tests. Those tests had changed everything for both of them forever.

The testing had happened earlier than usual. Most kids Lip knew had been tested in third or fourth grade—that's when they'd tested Debbie. But for Lip and Ian, it had gone down much earlier. That was Lip's fault. Had Lip not made a show of himself, not said anything, they probably could've gotten a few more years before they knew that there was something officially different between the two of them. But Lip had been trying to fix things.

It wasn't long after they'd moved into the house on Wallace that a social worker had come sniffing around. Someone had called about the wild, filthy kids at the end of the street who were home all day despite Labor Day having passed ages ago. She hadn't taken them away like they'd feared, but she'd done something nearly as bad; she'd insisted that Lip and Fiona had to enroll in school. She'd strongly recommended to Frank that Ian go to preschool, but of course there'd been no money for that. After a flurry of paperwork and threats and Frank Gallagher excuses and lies, it was settled. Fiona and Lip would start at Pittman Elementary that Monday. Ian would stay home with Frank until the next school year.

Lip had wanted none of it. Fiona had been in school intermittently before that back when Monica was still around, and Lip had never liked the sound of anything Fiona told him about it. What really upset him, though, was being forced apart from Ian. The two of them had never been separated longer than twenty minutes. Now Lip was expected to leave him from seven to two every day. And leave him with Frank.  _Alone_.

Fiona didn't like the idea anymore than Lip, but she pushed for compliance. They'd been in foster care before when the boys were too little to remember, and she was terrified of going back. She argued with Lip that if they didn't leave Ian with Frank, the lady would come back and send them off with strangers. Fiona hadn't learned the phrase 'the devil you know,' but she had certainly understood the concept.

Lip had protested right up until they left for school that first morning. He'd argued and argued and argued with Fiona the stupidity of the situation. He and Ian were practically the same age. If Lip could go to school, Ian should be able to come too. Or if Ian had to stay home, Lip should get to stay home too and go together with him next year. Lip thought they could just not go at all. Or maybe sneak Ian in. Fiona held firm, though, her dread of foster care overriding her natural tendency to listen to Lip. And that unusual rigidity shut Lip up finally. He didn't like seeing Fiona afraid.

The image of Ian the morning they left him is still burned into Lip's memory. Ian was sitting on the couch, clutching that Luther doll that Fiona had got him from Goodwill that weekend when they'd gone to buy Lip a backpack. Ian looked so small in Lip's old corduroys and a Batman t-shirt (another guilt purchase by Fiona that weekend). He'd tried to sit up tall and attentive as Fiona told him not to touch the stove or answer the door or answer the phone or go outside or wake up Frank if at all possible. Ian had been holding Luther like a real baby, like he would hold Debbie less than a year later, and he assured Fiona he would be good. Then he'd rested his chin on top of Luther's head and watched them placidly as they abandoned him.

Lip had felt too sick to speak all the way to school. Fiona didn't talk either.

Kindergarten was the stupidest thing Lip had ever seen in his life. He'd been mildly nervous about starting midway through the school year, but then he'd got there and they were still learning letters of the alphabet and how to count to twelve. Some of the kids didn't know the names of all the colors yet. They spent a ridiculous amount of time coloring and singing. It all felt like the biggest joke in the world. He'd had to leave Ian behind for this?

The ironic part was, Ian would've loved kindergarten. He still liked to watch all those baby counting shows with cartoons and puppets and songs. Ian would've fit right in.

As Lip lay on his mat during mandatory naptime, fooling with his dumb 'Philip' nametag, he tried to imagine what Ian was doing at home. Probably watching TV or playing with their cars. Lip wondered if Frank was up yet. Probably not. Hopefully not.

Lip rolled onto his belly, feeling sick again. Looking out over all these dumb kids picking their noses and playing with their clothes, some of them actually napping, Lip knew he had to get out of here. He had to get back to Ian.

The solution was laughably simple. As soon as naptime was over it was art period and Lip made his move. He threw his scissors at a girl named Ashley, dumped his construction paper all over the floor and, finally, when this wasn't enough, clocked a boy named Julio in the head with the fat bottle of classroom-size Elmer's Glue and told the teacher's aide to go fuck herself.

It didn't get him told to leave the school and to never come back, however; it got him sent to the Principal's office. They weren't going to send him home without being picked up by his parent or guardian. Lip kicked his feet against the secretary's desk in frustrated boredom as she tried and failed to get Frank on the phone. As lunchtime rolled around, she took up her purse and then ushered Lip in to the actual Principal's office, dumping him off so that she could go to lunch.

The Principal was another stupid lady too, and Lip grew more irritated as she asked him in babyish tones why he did what he did to the nice kids in his class. At first he played dumb, trying to get away with "I don't know," but she worked him around until he admitted that he needed to go home. Lip was momentarily torn away from thinking about Ian and Frank when she said, sounding oddly impressed, "So you planned it?"

Lip paused, feeling a tiny glimmer of pride as he explained his escalating steps of attack, only performing each new bad act when it became clear that the previous one was not going to be enough. He was crushed, though, when she informed him that he would never likely be sent home for good; at best he would only go home for the day.

They were interrupted just then when someone came in with two trays of cellophane-packaged lunch. Lip stared at the spaghetti, fruit cocktail, bread and milk in front of him and asked, "Is this just because I'm in the Principal's office?"

"No, Philip," she told him, "At our school, you get hot lunch. For many of our students, unfortunately, it's the only meal they have all day. Isn't that sad?"

Lip didn't think there was anything sad about a free lunch, but he didn't say so. He just busily tucked into it, reading the fliers on the bulletin board as he ate.

His eyes widened as he read one in particular. Choking slightly on his milk, he pointed at it and asked, "We can get breakfast too?"

The Principal stared at Lip as if he'd just told  _her_ to go fuck herself. "Did someone tell you that?" she asked.

"It says right there," Lip said, taking the poster off its thumbtack to show her since she was apparently half-blind. Holding it up to her, he read out loud, "Chicago Public Schools Breakfast Program: Fueling Chicago's Children For a Brighter Future."

"That's right," she said after an awkward moment, "Some of our students do qualify for the breakfast program as well."

"What do you have to do to get it?" Lip asked, "Be poor? We're poor."

"You certainly might qualify, then," she replied.

"Could my brother get breakfast too?" Lip asked, "He's almost the same age as me. He should be here. He'd like school."

The Principal asked a few questions about Ian then, and Lip took the opportunity to brag a little since she seemed interested. If he could sell her on the idea that Ian was ready for school, old enough or not, Lip figured that she'd probably wave him in. Ian could be lying next to Lip on a mat tomorrow, singing about numbers. Lip exaggerated a bit—Ian could read a little already because Lip had taught him, but he couldn't read like Lip could, despite what Lip told her. Ian also wasn't that great at math as Lip made him out to be, though he really did get the space heater working again that time in the spring.

It all seemed to be going quite well. The Principal brought Lip down to the Gifted and Talented office, introduced him to some more women and they had Lip sit for a long time and take a whole bunch of tests. Lip found it quite entertaining and was very pleased that they did such a bad job hiding how impressed they were with him. Nobody had ever paid Lip that much attention before. He soaked it up and almost didn't want to leave; everybody seemed so delighted by him.

The best part, though, was that they told Lip to have his father bring Ian by the next day to sit for testing too. As Lip met up with Fiona at the end of the day and they walked home together, he explained to her with glee how he'd fixed everything. All Ian had to do was come take these silly tests and they'd surely let him in.

"See," Lip told her as they headed onto Wallace, "I told you it was that simple."

Ian had been so excited to see them when they got home, and Fiona and Lip were relieved that their brother seemed no worse for wear. Ian was even more excited when Lip told him that he could start coming to school with him the next day. Fiona gave Lip a warning look about having said this, but it was too late; Ian was thrilled. He kept Lip up babbling about it and asking questions all night.

They'd talked Frank into taking Ian in the next morning with the promise that if Ian passed, Frank wouldn't have to watch him all day anymore. He would be free to do what he pleased without any kids 'hovering,' as Frank always described it. That had gotten Frank up and dressed. He even shaved and washed his hair.

The ladies at the school were nice to Lip again, even though they made him and Frank sit outside the office and watch Ian through a big window. Lip tried to wave at Ian, but one of the women brought Lip in briefly to show him how the window looked like a mirror on the inside. Lip was fascinated.

"They have those in jail too," Frank informed Lip when he came back out to sit with him and wait, "All institutions are the same. Same shit, different sign on the outside."

While Frank read through the report the ladies had given him about Lip's performance and interview the day before, Lip watched Ian through the glass.

Ian started off his usual cheerful self—smiling and answering questions. The ladies gave him Kool-Aid and Chips Ahoy, which they hadn't done with Lip; everybody always liked Ian better than Lip. But that seemed to be a good sign. Lip watched as Ian played with blocks for them and filled out picture worksheets and responded to flash cards. As the interview dragged on, though, Lip could see Ian growing antsy and bored, slouching in his chair. At one point Ian started slumping down on the table, playing idly with one of the blocks while they talked. Lip knew you weren't supposed to do that.

"Come  _on_ , Ian," Lip whispered.

Frank glanced up from the report and watched Ian for a moment before he said, "Don't think he's doing too well."

Lip felt like crying. Ian was ruining everything.

"Seems like you did pretty well, though," Frank noted, looking back down at the report, "Not surprising. Always knew you were smart."

Lip tore his eyes away from Ian's sinking ship to stare at Frank.

Frank sniffed as he read on and shook his head. "Off the charts smart," he murmured, "They're gonna love you here. You're the golden goose."

"What do you mean?" Lip asked.

Frank leaned over conspiratorially and Lip was distracted by the fact that Frank's breath smelled like toothpaste instead of beer.

"The way it works is, kids like you, little fucking geniuses, you bring up the test score average of the whole school. And you know what that means?"

Lip shook his head.

"Money," Frank said. "It's  _always_  about money."

"For me?" Lip asked.

Frank chuckled. "Oh, no, oh god, no. Money for you? No. Money for them. Bonuses. Perks. Apple computers. Staff retreats. It's all a racket. You guys are the ones who keep everybody else in this piss-ant little public school afloat. Everybody else leeches off of your smarts. And what do you get? Ha! Harder homework. And it's not just school. Once people 'round here figure out that you're smart, hoo boy, they're gonna want you to do everything for 'em. Expect you to go out, make it big, come back and pay off all their bills, make them set for life. Everybody's gonna feel like they own a piece of the golden goose. It never ends."

Lip frowned and turned his attention back to the window. Ian seemed to be doing very poorly at whatever challenge they'd set before him. Ian was gripping his pencil tight and looked like he was about to start crying.

"Hey," Frank said, swatting Lip at the shoulder, "Better get cracking on laying those golden eggs."

Then Frank gestured toward Ian and said, "This one's gonna need you to."

The truth was confirmed when the ladies finally led Ian out and one of them said warmly, "See you next year, Ian."

They shooed Lip and Ian off down the hallway while the ladies talked to Frank for a few minutes. As the boys kicked around at the other end of the hall, Ian looked glum.

"Sorry I didn't do good," Ian said.

"It doesn't matter," Lip told him.

"Sorry I'm not smart."

"It's okay," Lip said, "Bein' smart is dumb anyway."

That made Ian laugh and Lip felt marginally better. As Frank walked toward them, though, Lip's heart sank back down.

"What'd they say?" Lip asked.

"Could be worse," Frank replied, nodding toward Ian, "You're not a total idiot."

"I'm not?"

"High average," Frank said with pride, "No Gallaghers are ever just  _average_."

Ian beamed at that.

"You know he can read a little?" Frank asked Lip.

"Yeah," Lip said, "I'm teachin' him."

Frank just shook his head.

"They say anything about me?" Lip asked.

"Wanted to promote you," Frank said.

"What does that mean?"

"Bump you up a couple grades. Make life a lot harder on you. Don't worry—I put a stop to that song and dance. Easy Street for you. You're just gonna coast."

Lip wasn't sure how he felt about this. Maybe he could've been in class with Fiona if he'd asked. That would have been something, at least. Still, Lip wasn't eager to leave Ian any further behind.

"Check this out," Frank whispered, leaning over and pulling them both close. He produced from his pocket a booklet of what turned out to be coupons. Frank must have swiped it off a desk in one of the school offices.

"You get one of these little tickets," Frank said, "for every A on your report card. Says it gives you a free hamburger at Burger King."

Frank flicked the booklet of coupons like a flip-book in Lip's face and said, "We'll be eatin' for a week."

Ian appeared very impressed by the coupons and Frank handed him the booklet to carry then tousled the back of his head.

"Let's go get some capitalist rewards, boys," Frank said, steering them toward the exit.

"Don't I have to go to school?" Lip asked.

"Not today. It's Father-Son Day. No—it's Pulaski Day," Frank said with a flourish, "The holiday they created to keep all the Polacks happy."

"We're not Polish," Lip said.

"Yeah, well, they don't give us St. Patrick's Day off, do they? Come on."

"Should we get Fiona?" Ian asked, looking around as if he could spot her through the cinder block walls.

"Nah," Frank said, "Boys only. What she doesn't know about she won't miss."

Ian gave Lip a look, but they both followed Frank out anyway.

The next morning, Lip went to school with Fiona and did not complain. It was the first of many times that Lip would have to leave Ian behind, and there was nothing either of them could do about it. It never stopped feeling, though, like Lip had dropped Ian into shark-infested waters and was expected to just row away in his one-man boat never looking back.

"Fuck," Lip mutters, rolling onto his side, the stiff industrial carpet pressing roughly into his face.

"You all right, dude?" Kuz asks, leaning toward him.

"Think I'm gonna be sick," Lip whispers. It turns out that whiskey and pot and no sleep and shitty days and ghost babies are a terrible combination.

"Ew," Kuz says, shirking back. He grabs the wastebasket from under Lip's desk and shoves it at him.

Lip groans. The whole room is spinning and he can feel his pulse, louder than he's ever heard it, in his ears.

"I'm, uh, I'm gonna give you your privacy," Kuz says, hastily grabbing his coat and his laptop and making a break for it.

Lip buries his face in the carpet and the world goes dark.

* * *

There's an alarm going off.

Lip bolts up in the darkness and starts slapping for the nightstand before he realizes he's on the floor and not the bed. And then he realizes it's his phone, not the alarm clock. And it's not a wake-up alarm, it's a schedule alarm, the kind Amanda set up to go off every time he has an upcoming exam.

Clumsily, Lip locates his phone and stares at it, trying to figure out through the fog what it's alerting him about and how to turn it off.

_Algebra Test_

Lip hasn't taken algebra since fifth grade. He continues to stare at the phone, wondering absurdly if this is some kind of fluke message from the past. Then it hits him. It's Carl's algebra test. Lip put all Carl's upcoming tests into his schedule app so he'd know in advance what nights to plan to help Carl study. Carl's got a test tomorrow. Fuck.

Lip manages to turn the notification off then he grabs his coat and shoes and he bolts. It's not until he's already on the el, shivering and heading south that he thinks to check the time. It's after seven o'clock. Lip frowns at his phone, looks up, looks back at it then tries to figure out where the hell the rest of today went. The last thing he remembers is skipping his lab and getting high with Kuz. If he's been asleep since then, that means Lip also missed his three o'clock class and his stats study group, not to mention all the homework he had on the schedule for tonight.

Lip kicks the empty seat in front of him and pounds his fist against his thigh until he feels a little better for hurting.

The temperature has dropped and he's forgotten his gloves so by the time Lip gets to the house his fingers have gone numb. He lopes up the front steps and pauses, confused.

There's a storm door over the front door.

"What the fuck?" Lip says, pulling it open with great disdain and letting himself in.

Fiona is sitting on the couch with Ian and Yevgeny while Liam is sprawled out on the floor watching  _Monsters University_  for the eightieth time. Ian's holding Yevgeny and facing Fiona, doting and acting like it's his baby. Fiona is grinning at them both and acting like this is just hunky-dory.

"Hey!" Fiona greets Lip without taking her eyes off the baby, "Got a full house tonight! There's leftovers in the fridge, might still be warm. Lasagna."

"When the fuck did we get a storm door?" Lip asks as he takes off his coat and tosses it onto the pile on the pegs.

Fiona smiles and grabs one of Yevgeny's fists, making the baby squeal in delighted surprise. "Ian put that on," she says.

"Not bad for second hand, huh?" Ian says, "Should cut down on the heating bills some. Got my eye out for one for the back too."

"When did you become Bob Villa?" Lip asks.

Ian lifts Yevgeny up and onto his shoulders. "The guys in maintenance and custodial are all pretty handy," he says, "You learn a lot."

Ian grabs one of Yevgeny's feet and blows a raspberry on the bottom of it. Fiona and the baby both cackle with delight.

"Where's Carl?" Lip asks impatiently.

"In the kitchen," Fiona replies, gesturing toward it, "With Mickey."

Lip makes a face at this bit of information.

"You know he's got an algebra test tomorrow?" Lip asks, "Is anybody keeping track of this shit but me?"

"Yes," Fiona says with some offense, "Mickey's helpin' him study."

Lip snorts.

"He's been helping him for a couple weeks," Ian says, "Carl got a B on his last quiz."

"Probably 'cause  _I_  was helpin' him before that," Lip says.

"Well, you haven't been around much," Fiona shrugs. She stretches her arms up at Yevgeny and starts making pincher hands at him.

Lip starts to reply to that, but Ian talks first.

"You really don't need to keep running back here all the time," Ian says, "We got it. Everything's under control."

Lip stares at him, but Ian doesn't take his attention off Yevgeny and Fiona.

"Really," Ian adds, "If they need anything, I'm right around the corner. I can take care of whatever comes up. You don't have to."

There are no words Lip can find to respond to this. Instead he says nothing and makes his way to the kitchen, wondering what the hell kind of game Ian thinks he's playing here.

Behind him he hears Fiona say to Ian, "Is it weird that I think he sorta looks like you? I swear he's got your ears."

Ian laughs. "Maybe it's like how people and their pets start to resemble each other."

In the kitchen, Mickey is indeed helping Carl study for his Algebra test, hunkered down with him over books and papers at the table.

Feeling confused and very much like the odd man out, Lip opens the fridge and takes out a beer.

"Hey, man," Mickey says, "Toss one of those my way."

Lip meets Mickey's eyes for a beat. Mickey raises his eyebrows. Lip takes out another beer and brings it over to him.

"Thanks," Mickey says. He turns to Carl and says to him, "Now, you remember that FOIL crap we talked about last week?"

"Yeah," Carl says, "I think so. First, Outer, Inner, Last?"

"See?" Mickey says, "You got this shit. So now, how does that work with this? Where do ya start?"

Lip doesn't stick around to hear anymore. This is all strange to the point that he's starting to wonder if it's some kind of a hallucination or if he's still dreaming. He bounds up the stairs to his old room, seeking anything that feels right and familiar.

As if they've set it up as a joke, though, Lip flips on the light in his room and finds his bed covered with boxes and bags of crap, like they've decided to start using his room as a storage closet.

"The fuck," Lip sighs.

He shoves some stuff out of the way, clearing a space on the edge of the bed and sits down. He cracks the window and lights up a cigarette. Down the hall he can hear Debbie on the phone, probably with her boyfriend. Lip tries to remember what her boyfriend's name is, that kid who came to dinner that one time, but then Lip gives up. He's not even sure if Debbie's still seeing that kid. No one tells Lip anything anymore.

Lip leans back on the bed, shoving a garbage bag full of what looks like old blankets out of the way. He stares up at the water-stained ceiling, the light fixture with two out of three bulbs still burnt out (they've been burnt out since Lip lived here—but why would anyone bother to replace them?) and thinks through what papers and projects he has coming up. Today has really fucked him over. Something's gonna have to give this week, but he's not sure what he can afford to blow off.

Lip sits up on his elbows and glances at his closet. It too is stuffed full of boxes and bags of unwanted things (have they completely forgotten that there's an attic  _and_  a basement?), but there's something…He sits up fully and narrows his eyes. There's no way…

Lip is on his knees now at the closet, shoving a few things back so he can grab a hold of what he thinks is, what looks like, what…holy shit. It's Luther.

Slowly, Lip drags the doll by its leg out from under a pile of crap. Then Lip drops it like it's electrified.

Luther is missing an arm.

"Oh, shit," Lip whispers in revulsion, scooting back to sit hard on his heels.

After a second, Lip comes to his senses and appreciates the fact that there was no one around to witness him acting like a total freaked-out pussy. He doesn't get any closer to that doll though. Instead he sits with his back against the bed and continues to smoke while he stares at it, maintaining a safe distance.

Staring at Luther, Lip feels a strange kind of anxiety bubbling up in his stomach. It's not the anxiety of that dream, even with the freakish fact that the doll is now missing an arm for unknown reasons. It's not even something he can blame on the lingering grossness of his afternoon whiskey/pot combo. It's the anxiety Lip used to feel every day in kindergarten, knowing Ian was home alone with Frank with only this dumb doll to serve as protector.

Lip's thoughts are interrupted as Carl appears in the hall outside Lip's room.

"You still here?" Carl asks, leaning in the doorway.

"Not for much longer," Lip replies, "Don't really need me for what I came for."

"You mad?" Carl asks.

Lip shakes his head. "I'm not mad. He helpin' you?"

"Yeah," Carl admits, "He doesn't go as fast as you."

Lip smiles. "Okay. Lemme know if you get stuck on anything he can't do."

"You sure you're not mad?"

"Yeah." Lip feels slightly perturbed that Carl would think Lip was mad about something so petty as that. He nods toward Luther and asks, "You take the arm off that doll?"

Carl glances at it and looks smug. "Probably."

"Don't remember?"

Carl shrugs, "I've done a lot of shit in my day."

Then he turns to Lip and asks, "Who fucked you up?"

Lip has almost forgotten about his damaged face. It hurts all over again, now that he's thinking about it. "Some asshole," he replies.

"What'd you do?"

"Told him what I thought of him."

"He's good," Carl says, admiring Mickey's handiwork from one side of Lip's face to the other.

"How's football?" Lip asks, hoping to change the subject before Carl demands more details.

The enthusiasm fades from Carl's expression. "It's dumb," he says, "They never let me actually play."

"Takes time."

Carl scowls at this. "You sound like Ian."

This makes Lip smile. While he takes a last drag he has a good look at his brother. Carl seems taller and older every time Lip comes home, but he can already tell Carl is doomed to stall out at Frank and Lip size. He's built exactly like them. If Ian thinks that Carl is ever gonna get off the bench without further behind the scenes machinations, Ian's fooling himself. Lip is skeptical of how long this football thing is gonna last. He wouldn't put money on Carl making it to a second year.

And then what? Carl will have a lot more time on his hands and zero reason to bother trying to pass his classes. Lip's certain Ian didn't really think this plan through, just panicked at the idea of Carl joining the JROTC and jumped on the first alternative that presented itself. Thinking through long-term consequences has never been Ian's strong suit. If Ian had ever bothered to consult Lip about the plan, Lip could have easily pointed out the flaws.

Lip stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill still filled with the butts of his old cigarettes and asks, "You got any games coming up?"

"Don't bother," Carl sneers, "I never get off the bench."

"You never know," Lip says, "One or two kids gets cracked in the head right, concussed, paralyzed, whatever, that's your time to shine."

"That'd be awesome," Carl replies. Lip's fairly certain Carl is referring to witnessing a teammate get paralyzed on the field rather than the awesomeness of finally getting a chance to play. In any case, Lip is glad that Carl seems cheered up.

"Hey," Mickey calls from the bottom of the stairs, "I gotta go in ten minutes. We gonna do those last two practice problems or what?"

"Yeah," Carl hollers back. Then he gives Lip a sympathetic look and says, "Hope your face gets better."

"Yeah, thanks," Lip replies. As Carl starts to head back down, Lip says, "So you'll let me know about those games comin' up?"

"Don't worry about it," Carl says, "I don't care."

"Be nice to have some family support, right?"

"Eh," Carl says over his shoulder as he departs, "Ian's always there."

Of course he is.

Lip sits there for a moment longer, but Lip doesn't want to be here anymore tonight. There isn't any point anyway; nobody needs him. Nobody seems to give a flying fuck that he's here. If he wanted to feel so useless and lonely, he could've just stayed at school. At least then he could have the illusion that everyone at home missed him.

Lip climbs to his feet and gives Luther a swift kick, sending him back in the general direction of the closet. No more of this shit today.

When Lip heads down into the living room, he finds that Ian's apparently taken the baby home. Liam's passed out in front of the DVD menu, and Fiona's engrossed in texting someone. She doesn't look up or say anything as Lip heads out. If Lip felt like being logical, he'd think she just assumed he was heading out for a smoke, not actually leaving. Lip's in no mood to be logical, however. He moves Fiona up a spot on his shitlist for today.

The wind has picked up and Lip purposefully doesn't latch the storm door, allowing it to slam open and closed repeatedly. The sound is satisfying as he walks away.

* * *

Kuz is apparently away for the night. Normally, Lip would be pleased to have the room to himself, but tonight it's just too damn quiet. He manages to get a little bit of work done, but his mind keeps straying from the page. He's tempted to head out to a bar and drown his sorrows, but he doesn't want to be with strangers tonight. He wants to feel smart and good at something and cared about and known.

What he wants is to be back in his old room with his old brothers, the ones who looked up to him and liked him. Or maybe back with Mandy when she still adored him, back before Lip fucked that up. But Lip also doesn't want to be haunted by any more memories tonight. They always turn sour in his stomach.

So he does the best thing he can think of and heads over to Amanda's sorority house. The girls who answer the door seem pleased to see him, a little flirty like they always are, and this does wonders for Lip's mood. Such wonders are fleeting, though, already having fled to the hills by the time Lip makes his way up to Amanda's room.

He knocks on the door and knows he wouldn't blame her if she slammed the door in his face or had another guy or just told him to drop dead. He'd probably have done at least two out of three if their roles were reversed.

Amanda's face is stony and she holds the door mostly closed and asks, "What do you want?"

Lip wants to say he's sorry but he cannot for the life of him get the words out of his mouth. Instead he rests his head against the doorjamb, puts on his best Casanova expression and says, "Let me mow your lawn. Mow your carpet."

"You wanna munch my rug?"

"That's it."

Amanda rolls her eyes then holds open the door to let him pass. "Fine," she says, "But no falling asleep. That's worse than the battery dying on my vibrator."

"I'm better than a vibrator," Lip smiles, pleased to back in banter with her. This is a good sign.

"Nobody's better than a vibrator."

"Then why bother with me?"

"You bring a certain warmth and character. Also, I like having you at my feet."

He dumps his coat on her desk chair and says, "Your feet, huh?"

"Well, whatever."

She holds out her hand against his chest, keeping him at arm's length as he approaches her.

"First, though," she says, "There's a party at Sigma Lambda next week. I want you to be my arm candy."

"You're making me agree to terms before you'll  _allow_  me to go down on you?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"And I'm Skyping with my parents tomorrow. I want you to walk in on the middle of it, say some inappropriate shit. Act drunk, or something."

"No problem. I can do it Method style."

"Good. All right. Have at it."

Amanda shimmies out of her pajama shorts and panties and hops onto the bed, Lip following eagerly. It's warm and weirdly safe between her legs, the rest of the world dampened out a little. Lip likes the heat coming off of her and the soft, intimate scent of her pussy. He enjoys the way she tastes, and he enjoys the way he feels protected down here.

Lip never went down on Karen because she never asked him to, and it never occurred to him to volunteer. He did go down on Mandy a few times, but only to keep her happy, and it was never a pleasant experience for him—he always felt like he was under threat of being clobbered if he didn't flick his tongue fast enough or hard enough in the right places. Mandy wasn't great at communicating what she liked, but she was quite straightforward at communicating what she didn't.

But going down on Amanda is nice, even comforting somehow. Amanda is very attentive at guiding him, and Lip feels like he's actually good at it, or getting better. He enjoys working in small strokes to bring about involuntary quivering and gasping, loves when she grabs the sheets up in her fists. He feels a great sense of accomplishment when he gets her to scream and moan, ruffles the feathers of this metal mechanical mockingbird. Gifted and talented indeed.

When they have finished, he lays down beside her, waiting for her to offer up his reward, even if it's just inviting him into her nest for the night. He's so glad he doesn't have to sleep alone.

But she just looks at him.

"What?" he asks, sitting up on his elbow.

"Go home," she says, "You've made amends, but now I need to get back to work."

Lip knows he doesn't deserve any more than this, but he can't help but feel like the walls of the world are caving in on him as he throws his legs over the side of her bed and prepares to head back to that crappy, lonely dorm room. He reaches for his shoes like a man being forced to dress for his execution.

"Lip?"

He is surprised by the soft tone of her voice, and raises his head to find that she is looking at him with pity. He'll take pity. Pity works.

"You're so pathetic," she says, but it sounds gentle, maybe even a little charmed.

She puts her hand to the side of his face as he gives her a half-smile, and she kisses his Mickey wounds lightly.

"Come on," she says, inclining her head toward the bed, inviting him to stay.

Lip undresses quickly, slides under the covers as Amanda switches out the light.

In the darkness she spoons him, one arm around his chest. With her other hand, she runs her fingers through his hair, her breath soft and warm against his cheek. Lip feels good and safe for a while as he drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was such a long one, guys. Congrats to anyone who got through and apologies for this massive self-indulgence. I also want to apologize to anyone whose comment I've yet to reply to on the last chapter--real life intervened while I was in the middle of replying to those, but the plan is to respond to everything sometime this week. Please do know that I adore your comments--I have the most awesome and attentive readers in the world, I swear--and I re-read your comments many times over. They're an enormous inspiration to keep going and a damn delight as well. 
> 
> As always, thanks so much to everyone who continues to read this weirdo story and to those who leave comments and kudos. You guys are truly the best.
> 
> Much thanks as well to my amazingly patient beta-reader/cheerleader, the incomparable Avalonia320.


	5. Algernons Anonymous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many, many apologies for the wait on this update. In the time since I posted the last chapter, Season 5 of Shameless has of course started airing, rendering this little story a full-fledge AU (or at least majorly canon-divergent). Oh, well. My intention is to continue on with the plot and characterization I'd laid out originally for this story back in the fall. Although I'm watching (and enjoying) Season 5, it will have very little bearing on this story. Hopefully folks will enjoy this alternate version of Season 5 anyway.
> 
> As always, thanks so much for everyone who continues to read and for any reviews/comments/kudos. You all very much keep me going with this Behemoth.
> 
> Special thanks as well to my beta, the lovely Avalonia.

Lip is hungover. He's been hungover every morning for the better part of the past week, so this is nothing new, just the same familiar shitty feeling once the sleep pulls away from him like low tide, leaving his water-logged brain exposed.

He's been playing catch-up, robbing Peter to feed Paul or selling Peter to pay Paul or whatever the hell it is you do to Peter when Paul comes knocking for his due. But there's far too much to conceivably catch up on with only 24 hours in a day and more assignments, quizzes, projects, papers, labs, and tests constantly shooting down the pike. So Lip's fallen into crisis mode, pushing off things and tossing some to the side in order to complete whatever's most immediate and hopefully most important. He hates existing like this; it's exhausting on every level. And yet when the time comes to sleep, he's too wired and wound up and can't get his brain to shut up. So, whiskey it is. It's become the only reliable way to knock himself out.

But he can't figure out how to stop having dreams, all those bad, fucked-up dreams, and in the morning he keeps waking up next to memories he doesn't remember inviting into his bed.

This morning it's Little League. That double. The only double Lip ever hit in his admittedly short career. He was never an athlete. Not clumsy and uncoordinated, or whatever, nothing too embarrassing, but Lip wasn't ever particularly talented in that regard. It wouldn't have been so bad except that he and Ian were on the same team, and Ian actually  _was_ talented.

Ian was as big of a star as you could be on that crappy underfunded local team, a big fish in a rain puddle. Unlike the other kids, Ian somehow managed to look like a miniature professional in his polyester uniform and worn-out Goodwill cleats. For all his gangliness, he was graceful. And strong. He hit doubles all the time.

That day that Lip got his double, though, Ian's game had been off. He'd hit a couple fouls, which he never did, and struck out, which he really never did. Then he'd fumbled when a ball went straight to him in the outfield, allowing two runners to get home safe before Ian finally recovered the ball and got it back to the second baseman. Ian's day was a disaster, and Lip didn't get why until he saw Frank in the stands sitting next to Fiona and Monica.

But Lip didn't understand why Frank's presence—the first time he'd ever come to one of their games—should throw Ian for such a loop. Normal Frank, sure; if he was there, the both of them would be dying of embarrassment and shame, but this was New Frank. Dad had stopped drinking, hadn't touched a drop in over a week, and the change was incredible. He was full of energy, talkative, engaged,  _interested_  in them. The night before he'd spent two hours talking with Lip about his science project—Lip had been surprised and honestly excited to find that Frank knew a few things. It had been such a nice change to sit in their house and talk to an actual adult who wasn't a crazy idiot like Monica or drunk or high like all the other adults who passed through that house usually were.

Ian had been moody all through Frank's first week of sobriety, like he was annoyed at having Frank around so much. Lip supposed he couldn't blame Ian for that—Frank doted on the other kids, but mostly ignored Ian like he always had. Lip figured that Ian was jealous. But surely Ian would come around. New Frank was rapidly becoming Lip's favorite person. Ian would have to warm to him eventually, especially once Frank started working for real, bringing home money, buying them things, coming to school nights, coming to games…

"Good luck," Ian said as Lip went up to bat. Ian's face looked grim, though, and Lip could see his brother's frustration under the brim of his cap.

As Lip trotted from the batting cage up to home plate, he glanced into the bleachers. Frank was bouncing Debbie on his knee and waved to him. Lip felt energized like he never had before. He felt like a goddamned athlete as he took up the bat and straightened his cap. In his mind, he moved like Ian always moved, swinging that bat with confident ease in perfect form. And when the ball connected with a satisfying crack, it was almost as if Lip knew it would happen.

Lip ran like he had never run before, pounding onto first base, charging on with exhilaration toward second. The coach waved at him to stop once Lip hit second and he did, panting and grinning. He looked first to the batting cage where he could see Ian holding both thumbs up in the air. Lip wiped the sweat from underneath his cap with the back of his hand and looked to the stands. Frank was losing his shit. For one second of terror, Lip thought Frank was angry or drunk again, the way he was moving. But then Lip realized that Frank was excited and cheering. Frank was proud.

Lip didn't make it to home plate that inning—the kids after him both struck out and they'd already had an out from the boy who batted before Lip. There was only one more inning after that and their team lost, Ian playing just as badly as he had earlier. It didn't matter, though—Lip was elated.

As the players left the field to meet up with their families, Frank greeted Lip with a bear hug.

"You are some athlete," Frank told him, keeping his arm around Lip as they walked toward home, "Told everyone in the stands, 'that's my son.' Never been so proud."

Lip couldn't speak, just smiled in pleasure, soaking up the attention.

Then things got even better when Monica suggested they go out for pizza. Normally, this would've been just another airhead Monica idea they all knew couldn't be followed up on, but that day Frank agreed wholeheartedly, startling the kids.

"Can we afford it?" Fiona asked, "Pizza's expensive." Lip could almost see her calculating the month's bills in her head.

"Dine and dash?" Ian muttered without enthusiasm.

"I'm a sober man now," Frank assured them, "I've got plenty of money. It's incredible, the money you save when you stay home thinkin' instead of going out and drinkin'."

Then he laughed and added, "I'll be damn near wealthy soon. Don't tell Uncle Sam or he'll be coming for his cut."

So they'd gone to dinner like a family in a Pizza Hut commercial, and if anyone had asked Lip then, he would've said it was the best day of his life. He and Ian and Frank split a pizza while Monica, Fiona, and the babies shared another. Ian had even seemed to cheer up a little, he and Lip shooting wadded up bits of napkin at each other through their straws. Ian laughing pretty much secured the perfection of the day for Lip.

Frank leaned over to Ian and pointed a thumb at Lip as he said, "Watch how he plays and you'll really learn something. He's got the family talent."

Ian's smile faded, but Fiona, who'd been keeping a careful eye on Frank, was quick to speak up.

"Ian's really good," Fiona told Frank, "Just had an off day."

"Ah, you crack under pressure," Frank said to Ian, "Your mother's like that too. The second she knows someone's watching her—" he mimicked a bomb exploding between his hands, "—goes to pieces. Walking disaster."

"Frank," Monica protested as she struggled with Carl and Debbie. Fiona kept a wary eye on her, clearly trying hard not to intervene.

Frank glanced over at Monica and, perhaps feeling bad about his statement (New Frank felt bad about things), he reached for Carl and wordlessly took him to the bathroom for a change. New Frank took care of his kids.

While Frank was gone, Monica still grappling not terribly successfully with Debbie, Lip took his eyes off her and looked back at Ian warily. Frank and Ian had long co-existed with a cold indifference to each other that occasionally erupted into violence on Frank's part but seldom anything else. So it wasn't surprising that New Frank and Ian would be a little rocky in warming to each other. If Ian could just open his mind to the possibilities, though, Lip thought, stop being so stubborn, he'd see that this could work really well for him too.

As if reading Lip's mind, Ian leaned across the table and hissed to Lip, careful that Monica didn't hear, "He's still the same shit he was before."

"You're just jealous," Lip hissed back, "Because he doesn't like you."

"Why are you being so dumb?" Ian whispered, "You know how he is."

"You don't know that," Lip replied, "You don't know anything."

"Yeah," Ian said, glaring into his Sprite, "And you're Mark McGwire."

"Stop being such a baby," Lip chastised him, "Just because you played crappy."

Ian fixed his glare on Lip then and kicked the table, drawing Monica's exasperated attention and finally causing Fiona to intercede.

"Enough," Fiona said, "Both of you. Stop."

"You're an idiot," Lip said, plunging his straw into his Fanta and looking away.

"It's all right, Ian," Fiona said in commiseration, "It'll happen soon enough."

She'd said that in a low whisper meant for Lip not to hear from his side of the table, but he'd heard it anyway, and he ignored it. For years Lip had felt that New Frank existed inside of his father; all Frank had to do was give up the drinking. And now he had. Who cared if it was a stupid bet at the bar that prompted it? Means to an end. But Ian's skepticism and Fiona's support of that enraged Lip. What Lip had desired for years had finally happened, and they were shitting all over it.

Lip continued ignoring the both of them the rest of the evening, stayed up late into the night enjoying Frank's praise and attention, sharing his school projects with him, showing off his honor roll certificates and science fair prizes and gifted program commendations, all saved carefully in a box under the bed, as if Lip had known all these years that this day would come.

In the morning, Frank and Monica were nowhere to be found. Ian and Fiona were maddeningly nonchalant about this, going about the normal business of taking care of Carl and Debbie, getting ready for school. Lip said not a word to them, packed his lunch and left on his own. After school Lip walked up and down the streets of the neighborhood in search of Frank. He checked the job center, the church, the clinic, the police station, the Laundromat, K-mart, Jewel, and even the library. He didn't check the bars or the pool halls or any of the houses or alleys where Frank and Monica could usually be found. Lip couldn't bear to.

As the sun set, Lip headed home reluctantly, but he paid little attention to the dinner Fiona served or to his homework, thoughts occupied by the whereabouts of his father. Maybe Frank had gone out to find a job and Monica had gone with to support him. Maybe Frank had taken Monica to the clinic, having talked her into going back on her meds. Maybe they had just decided to take a spur-of-the-moment Metra ride to the suburbs to visit Monica's mother and forgotten to leave a note, forgotten to take the kids. Maybe they were going to come in the door any minute with some kind of big surprise: a puppy, a car, bikes for everybody. When they were in good moods, they sometimes did stuff like that. Surely New Frank loved that kind of business just as much as happy high Frank had.

But when Frank and Monica finally made it back home, there were no jobs or puppies or new and improved parents. They stumbled in, falling down drunk. Frank was puking before he even made it into the bathroom.

"Frank won the bet!" Monica laughed, slumping onto the sofa, "We're bringing the celebration home! What's fun without family?"

Lip didn't stay to watch the unfolding disaster. He abandoned his homework and marched upstairs without a word.

Ian found him in his bed a little while later. Lip kept his head under the covers so Ian wouldn't know that he'd been crying.

"What do you want?" Lip demanded.

Ian was quiet a moment, then he said, "I still got some pellets for that air rifle. Wanna go to the paint factory and shoot out windows?"

"No."

"Wanna sneak into the movies?"

"Go away."

Ian didn't say anything for a while after that, but Lip could still feel his presence through the blanket.

Eventually, Ian put his hand on Lip's back, leaned over him, and whispered, "He still likes you. At least you have that."

Lip gave no reply to Ian, resented him even for trying to make Lip see some kind of a bright side when clearly there was none to be had. Instead Lip waited him out, waited until Ian gave up and went to bed. Then Lip lowered the damp blanket from his face and fixed his eyes on the wall. From downstairs he could still hear the racket of Frank and Monica wreaking havoc, Fiona struggling to corral them, protesting and suggesting in that useless way she had that worked so well on the kids but never worked as well on her parents. They bulldozed her. Lip could tell it was happening again, just like always. Something tipped over and broke—a lamp, perhaps, something shatterable—and that would be the point normally when Lip would go down to help. But this night he couldn't bring himself to. He laid still, feigning sleep until the ruckus woke Carl from his crib, and still Lip pretended he was dead to it all. He wished he was.

Ian got up to soothe Carl back to sleep, the job he always took on while Lip and Fiona dealt with the adults. Then Debbie cried out from her bedroom down the hall and Lip held his breath. He could feel Ian waiting to see if Lip would get up and do his part. But still Lip didn't move. His heart felt like cast iron, anchoring him to the bed, the pictures taped to the wall growing blurry before his eyes.

Ian sighed pointedly and, hauling Carl with him, trudged down the hall to tend to Debbie.

Alone at last, Lip made a vow in the bedroom that night that he would never again trust anyone to care about him. He'd never again be caught naïve. That was worse, almost, than being hurt at all. Hope was dangerous. Never again was he going to mess with it.

Lip blinks into the sunlight now, head still pounding from the hangover and the not great sleep. Kuz is snoring and Lip can sense his alarm clock is going to go off in a few minutes. He rolls over and squints up at the wall schedule. Amanda's been taking a more hands-off approach to Lip's studies lately, and he's only now realizing just how much he's come to rely on her to keep him on track. Things seem to keep veering dangerously close to going on the rails, like he's one little oversight away from disaster. It feels like being Fiona, living from one breath to the next. And Lip detests feeling like Fiona; he's supposed to have his shit together better than that.

He sighs, thinking about his sister. He's got to call her today, can't put it off any longer. They've got to talk about the tax bill.

The fucking tax bill. It still makes Lip furious, his fist tightening around the corner of his pillow as he contemplates it. Another patented Fiona Gallagher Great Decision. Back when she was first out on bail, the rent had come due with no money anywhere to speak of. Patrick had come breathing down her neck and Fiona, in the state that she was in then, had bought him off (and bought some time) saying she'd pay a late fee and have it all the next week. That hadn't happened, of course; Fiona'd had even less that next week: no job, no money, no brothers beside her. Desperate not to lose the house on top of everything else, she'd made a wild agreement to pay that year's property taxes, due in November. Lip could see her cornered thinking—November seemed like ages away, surely she'd be better off by then, surely she could pay that taxes and the back rent and no one would ever be the wiser that Fiona had made one more deal with the devil. It was Fiona-style thinking through and through, betting on a better tomorrow and crossing her fingers.

Fiona's voice had wavered as she told Lip about this months later, and his frustration toward her had been tempered at the memory of how he'd let her drown last winter, left her in charge of shit she was in no shape to be in charge of. Now they're stuck trying to find another $2000 for the tax bill and they're almost worse off than they were back when Fiona was just desperately dodging Patrick—back then at least they'd been able to believe in the illusion that Fiona could find work paying what she was used to getting.

Now November has come and that tax bill is clipped to the Gallagher fridge, both innocuous and ominous.

All the money Lip got from Amanda's parents had been swallowed into the abyss of past due bills and rent and groceries and Liam's follow-up care since Lip had insisted on real doctors, not clinic morons. It was truly astonishing how quickly everything had gone to shit when Fiona and Lip and Ian had all simultaneously decided it was time to fuck-off last winter—Fiona's the one still dealing with the fall-out, and Lip does feel guilty about that. He's been wracking his brains to figure out how to help, how to get this stupid tax bill off her shoulders at least, but he's at a loss—his work-study job barely covers his books and fees and what basically amounts to beer money. He's got no time for any other kind of job, and the well seems to have gone dry on schemes. Lip can't seem to think of a damn idea these days and that frightens him more than any of it—if his brain is too bogged down in theorems and formulas and college nonsense, what the hell have they got to count on?

The Squirrel Fund money from the summer was almost entirely eaten up by the furnace fiasco in September. They're back to day to day, hand to mouth, and Fiona still can't find steady work. All she has is the waitressing gig at the pie place and that's barely covering groceries and most of the rent. Without Debbie and Carl's after school jobs and whatever random bits Fiona begs off of Lip and Ian, there wouldn't be any house or heat or water. The felony and the neighborhood notoriety of what she'd done to Liam have affected Fiona's prospects for paid work more than even cynical Lip predicted they would. It was amazing the kind of shit jobs you could actually be denied—jobs literally dealing with shit (dog shit, baby shit, industrial vats of pig shit)—Fiona is no longer considered good enough for any of them. Lip knows that's got to be getting to her, all her big, brave smiles aside.

And still that fucking tax bill is looming.

The alarm goes off. Lip slaps the clock harder than necessary and crawls reluctantly out of bed to start another goddamn day.

* * *

After lunch, Lip decides to take twenty minutes and get this call to Fiona over with. He's got to get to the library and start work on his research paper, but he knows he won't be able to concentrate until they set up a time at least to brainstorm ideas about how to pay the tax bill. He wants to sit down with her, go over all the other due bills, go over whatever's left in the squirrel fund. Lip needs to have a better picture of what they're dealing with. He wants to hope that it's not as bad as he thinks it will be, but he's keeping that optimism carefully off-limits.

He grabs a coffee to-go before he leaves his shift at the cafeteria, peeling his hairnet off as he heads outside. He locates a fairly secluded concrete bench around the side of the building and sets to work on Irishing up his coffee before he calls Fiona. He has a feeling he's going to need the reinforcement.

Glancing out over the muddy, November-dead foliage of campus, Lip returns his flask to his interior coat pocket and trades it for his phone. He takes a big gulp of coffee and dials.

"What?" Fiona snaps as she answers the phone.

Lip hesitates, surprised by this greeting. "Uh…everything okay?" he asks.

"Yeah," she sighs, still audibly irritated, " _Yes_. Everything's  _fine_. Same as ever."

"Whatcha doin'?"

"Tryin' to—never mind. It's not important." Fiona's voice audibly shifts into one of her everything-is-fine smiles, "How's college?"

"It's…you know. Busy."

"You holdin' up?"

Lip feels so tired as she asks him this. "Yeah," he says after a second, "It's cool."

"Well, if there's anything I can do," Fiona says, voice sounding distracted again, "Just let me know."

Lip smiles to himself, trying to imagine what Fiona could possibly do to help him. He's traveled past the time when Fiona setting a plate of eggs down in front of him or tossing in his clothes with hers in the washer could be a help. Nowadays Fiona's just another responsibility.

He opens his mouth to bring up the tax bill, but she interrupts him before he gets a chance to speak.

"Debbie didn't come home until three in the morning last night," Fiona blurts out.

"What? What the hell?"

"She claims she and Joaquin fell asleep watching TV in his basement."

"Bullshit."

"I know."

"Fuck."

"I know."

Lip grinds his teeth and glares at the pile of cigarette butts around the base of the bench. He is not going to have this to deal with on top of everything else. Not Debbie. No no no no no fucking way.

"This is not happening," he says firmly.

"I know."

"You can't just let this slide, Fiona. Debbie's—"

"I chewed her out about it last night, don't worry."

"That's not good enough."

"Oh, really," Fiona scoffs, "Just what exactly do you want me to do?"

"Stop her. Jesus."

"How? I'm workin' nights. I can't be her warden. I just have to trust her."

"She's fourteen! You can't trust her."

"It's Debbie."

"Yeah and it's Debbie on teenage hormones, all right? Trust goes out the window. Think about what you were doing at fourteen."

Fiona snorts, "I was raisin' four kids. Tryin' to get mom off meth."

"Fine. Think about what  _I_ was doin' at fourteen."

"Do I even want to know what you were doin' at fourteen?"

"No. You don't. That's my point."

Fiona sighs. "I can't chain her to the house."

Lip gazes skyward and takes a deep drag. There is no stopping any of this. It has begun.

"Fuck," he mutters.

"I know."

He closes his eyes and asks, "Do we even know what Carl's getting up to at night?"

"Workin' with me, mostly."

"Right," Lip says. At least that's something. Thank god for Carl's busboy gig. Then it occurs to him, "Who's watchin' Liam?"

"Debbie."

"So, where was Liam last night?"

"Out with Debbie. She takes him with her."

Lip is quiet for a moment before he dares ask, "So, you're telling me Liam got home at three in the morning last night too?  _Liam_  was out carousing until three o'clock in the fuckin' morning?  _Jesus Christ_ , Fiona. What the hell is going on in that house? You used to have your shit together."

"I used to have help!" Fiona snaps, but Lip can hear that the anger in her voice is tinged with pain. Her distress becomes more readily apparent as she rambles on defensively, "I used to have you and Ian all the time helpin' me. And Debbie. She wasn't always talkin' back and  _fightin'_  with me like she does now. I had Jimmy. I had V and Kev. I didn't have to share them with three other babies. I never even see them anymore now. I never see anyone. 'Cause I'm all alone here, and I can't even get a fuckin' job that covers the rent, all right? I'm tryin', Lip, I really am. But I can't keep this job and be here twenty-four hours a day, okay? And I can't afford to lose this job 'cause God knows how I'll get another one. Just lay off with the saintly brother lectures, all right? I don't need it from both of you. I am more than aware that I'm doin' a piss-poor job…"

She trails off and Lip's afraid that she might be crying. Shit.

"You're right," he says, careful to modulate his tone to sound a little nicer and to reel her back to the shore of sanity. He can't take Fiona losing it on top of everything else right now. "You're in a shitty position and you can't do everything. I'm sorry. Okay? I'm sorry. Debs's growing up. It's not your fault. I'll talk to her."

"No, no," Fiona says, having regained her composure, "She'll think I'm talkin' bout her behind her back. Then she'll really be pissed. Just let me handle it. It'll be okay. I shouldn't have told you."

"No," Lip says right back, "You should tell me. Don't go not tellin' me shit. I need to know what's goin' on."

"Why?" Fiona sniffs cynically, "So you can keep an eye on me? Make sure I don't fuck up again?"

Lip breathes through his teeth in frustration, but then keeps careful watch on his tone once more as he says, "No. I just want to know what's going on. I don't like being in the dark. Like the tax bill, right? You can't just spring this crap on me months down the road. I need time to figure out solutions."

"Oh," Fiona says, sounding falsely nonchalant, "Don't worry about the tax bill."

"Why? Patrick change his mind?" Lip asks this even though he knows it isn't likely. Fiona is clearly trying to hide something. "He decide to pay the bill himself?"

"Sort of," she replies brightly. But she leaves it at that, obviously hoping Lip will just be a moron and accept this.

"What the hell does 'sort of' mean? How do you sort of pay a tax bill?"

Fiona is quiet and Lip can almost hear her running through different possible answers, trying to figure out which one will make him the least upset. This pause and process, however, is making Lip even more upset. Then she answers finally.

"Ian paid it."

"What?"

"Ian paid the bill. It's done now. Off our backs. He talked to Patrick too. Told him that was it, time to leave us alone."

"Ian paid a $2,000 tax bill."

Fiona hesitates then she just murmurs in the affirmative, "Mmm-hmm."

"How?"

"I guess he had it. I went with him to get the cash turned into a money order. Saw it myself."

"Where the fuck is he getting all this money from?"

When Fiona answers, she's dropped the obfuscating act and sounds just as worried as Lip feels. "I don't know."

"Did you ask him?"

"Kinda afraid to? I don't need Ian pissed off at me too."

"Shit," Lip sighs. One problem replaces another. That's what always happens when he deals with home.

Fiona offers up a possibility, saying, "I think Mickey might be sellin' drugs again on the side to help out."

Lip snorts. "Oh, you mean you think he ever stopped?"

"Didn't he? I thought he was just doin' the rub 'n tug now."

"Really?" Lip asks, "We gonna be that naïve now? I can't even list all the illegal shit Mickey's got goin' down in that house. One raid. One raid and Ian's in jail too. Accessory and all that."

Fiona is quiet as she processes this bit of information then she tries to turn that sick feeling Lip's all too familiar with into a joke. "Well, at least since they're married, they can't testify against each other if it comes down to it. That's somethin'."

Lip takes a sip from his coffee and swallows hard, the whiskey burning his throat in a satisfying fashion.

"That why you're bein' so nice to Mickey? You think he's been helpin' you out?" He asks.

"What? No. I'm nice to Mickey 'cause he's my brother-in-law. He's been good to Ian. Been good to Carl and Debbie. Besides—Ian's crazy about him."

"Yeah, for how long?" Lip replies peevishly.

"Lip, they're married. That's not goin' anywhere."

"Temporary insanity," Lip says, taking another dramatic sip from his coffee then switching back to his cigarette. "You think that's even gonna last a year?" he adds.

Fiona starts to say something but stops herself. Lip grins, picturing her putting up her hands in defeat as she sets the topic aside. She's not gonna argue with him. Probably because she knows he's right.

Then Fiona moves away from the topic of Mickey and the marriage, back to Ian's mysterious cash flow.

"Maybe Ian's just makin' better money than we thought," she says.

"Nope," Lip says, "No way. I've seen what he makes. State university—salaries are public record. He's makin' peanuts. Less taxes, union dues, insurance, all the out-of-pocket expenses for his treatment…He's still seeing those fancy doctors up at Northwestern Memorial, right? Even if Jimmy's dad arranged some sort of sweet discount for him up there, he's still gotta be payin' something. Not to mention, floatin' all those lowlifes over at House Milkovich. Diapers and clean needles ain't cheap."

Lip stubs out his cigarette and rubs his eyes while he waits for Fiona to come up with her next Pollyanna possibility. The temperature is dropping and Lip can feel his research paper being carried off on the bitter wind.

"Maybe he got some money with that award," Fiona says at last.

Lip pauses, his coffee cup midway to his mouth. "What award?"

"The one the University gave him? He must've told you about it. He's startin' a couple classes in January."

Lip just stares at his coffee cup, letting this sink in. That little motherfucker. Ian decided to take the award after all of that and then didn't even bother to tell Lip. Somehow, Lip finds himself smiling.

"Lip?" Fiona questions after he's been quiet too long, "He told you, right? It's a really big deal. Guess they really wanna help promote him. See somethin' in him, you know? It's nice."

"No," Lip says, shaking his head even though she can't see him, "There's no cash award with that. It's just about classes and books and stuff."

"Oh."

Lip toys with his coffee cup as he waits for Fiona's next idea. Somehow it's become her responsibility to offer up an explanation for Ian being Mr. Moneybags. Maybe because she seems to have been the main recipient. Lip surely doesn't remember seeing any signs of extra income over at the Milkovich house. Even Yevgeny's baby shit is all Liam's old stuff; Lip recognized that right away. And this annoys him. He doesn't like seeing stuff that belongs to the Gallaghers over at the Milkoviches', and he doesn't like that Ian's butting in so much over at the Gallagher house. Those two worlds are supposed to be kept separate. Ian made his choice. He doesn't get to have everything.

"You know," Fiona says, thinking through the idea as she speaks, "Debbie did say that Ian wasn't home a couple times when she tried goin' over to see him in the evening. Maybe he's got a second job?"

Lip sips his coffee and considers this option. "That actually sounds plausible," he says, "Must pay pretty well, though."

"Listen," Fiona says, "I gotta get goin'. Got a meeting I need to get to."

"Carl been actin' up again?"

"No, not school. NA meeting."

"Right."

"Talk later?"

"Yeah."

Just before Fiona can end the call, though, Lip says, "Fiona?"

"Yeah?"

"Sorry for givin' you a hard time. You know, about Debbie."

Fiona laughs, "What's with you two lately? Ian gave me a big speech—well, big speech for Ian—thankin' me for takin' care of you guys growin' up. I think spendin' so much time with Yevgeny's makin' him sentimental."

Lip briefly considers telling Fiona about that night with Ian when they put up the tile, what Ian had said to Lip about Yevgeny and babies. Lip wants Fiona to know so she will commiserate, so she can take some of the sadness of what Ian had said off of Lip's heart.

But Lip can't quite bear to bring it up, so instead he volunteers again, "I can talk to Debbie. Carl too, if you want. I'll set 'em straight. Tell 'em they better start givin' you an easier time."

"Nah," Fiona dismisses this offer, "Really, don't worry about it. We're fine here. You just stay put and keep killin' them up there at college, okay? Keep knockin' all those papers and book reports out of the park."

Lip's stomach sinks a little, but he can't resist remarking, "Book reports?"

"You don't do book reports in college?"

"I haven't done a book report since the second grade."

Fiona laughs. "Yeah, well, that's why you're up there and I'm down here. Anyway, I really gotta go."

"Yeah, all right. Have a good meeting."

"Oh, the best, I'm sure. All right. Bye, Lip."

"Bye."

Lip sets his phone on the bench and finishes off the rest of his coffee. That does a little to numb the empty feeling the call has left him with. He's relieved to have the tax bill off his Things To Worry About list, but somehow even with that item struck off, the list has still grown. And, despite his annoyance about everything, Lip finds himself fighting the urge to hop a train and head down there, put everything to rights at the house. He doesn't even know what he could do, but he still has a nagging need to do something. But Fiona said to stay where he is. Keep knocking it out of the park. Like Lip's just hitting doubles every time. At this point in the semester he's just hoping to get hit with the ball and walked to First.

But there is one bright spot, one thing that's actually worked: Lip finally got through to Ian about taking that award. Lip knew his persistence and reason would pay off. At least that's something Lip's been able to fix. He was starting to worry his game had fallen completely off.

He glances at the time on his phone and decides he can blow off working on his paper a little longer. He's feeling oddly giddy thinking about Ian, pleased like he hasn't felt in a long while, and he doesn't want to let that squelch out under stacks of musty books and the weight of mid-semester library silence.

He grabs his stuff and bounces a little on his feet as he makes his way over toward the Physics Building where he knows Ian should be at work somewhere. It's a newer building with a large open atrium space in the middle, flooding the interior with light even on an overcast day like today. The classrooms, labs and offices run the length of the atrium on two sides with green glass walkways connecting the two halls periodically. Everything is glass practically and it's easy to see to the expanse of an entire floor with one glance.

Lip climbs the stairs, pausing on each landing for a look and finally spots Ian on the fourth floor. Lip's on one side of the atrium, Ian on the other, but Ian's got his back to Lip and doesn't see him.

Lip pauses and takes the opportunity to watch his brother a moment. Ian's collecting discarded coffee cups and candy wrappers in a lounge area, working with easy grace and rhythm. Usually, the sight of Ian in the green uniform depresses Lip, as if he can see Ian growing stooped and old in it, one of those pathetic, ancient workers that people look away from out of pity, pushing his mop faithfully until the day he has a heart attack over it in some empty public washroom, and no one finds his body for hours.

Today, though, that uniform means something different. It's gotten Ian a ticket to something better. With Lip's help it won't be long until Ian's moved up to some dumb office job on campus and traded that olive drab shirt and pants for khakis and a Polytech polo. He won't be getting handyman tips from the guys he works with; he'll be playing golf. Lip smiles as he envisions it. Ian's gonna look exactly like fucking Clayton. God, he'll rent some condo in Uptown or something, share it with a couple of other gay guys with office jobs, start drinking wine, talking about whatever the fuck it is that gay guys talk about when they're in groups together, art or some shit…he'll be all right. That's a safe kind of life, the kind that could cushion him from everything else. And it's possible. Lip has made Ian see that now, dragged him one important step closer to achieving it.

Then Lip frowns as he sees Ian pick up the same paper coffee cup and immediately drop it twice in a row. Ian squats down to pick it up a third time and drops it again. Still squatting, Ian leans forward, rests his forehead against the side of his cart and closes his eyes in frustration.

"Hey," Lip calls out, crossing the walkway now and heading toward him.

Ian jerks to attention and does not look happy to see him. He stands up as Lip reaches the lounge.

"What do you want?" Ian asks, busying himself with the cart, coffee cup still on its side near his feet, ignored but not at all forgotten.

As he comes up to him, Lip can see that Ian's hands are trembling terribly. Ian catches Lip looking at them, shoves his hands in his pockets and repeats firmly, "What do you want?"

"You okay?"

"You smell like Frank."

Lip shrugs at this and says, "You can't write a 14 page paper on postwar globalization sober."

Lip bends down and picks up the discarded cup, tosses it into the waste receptacle on Ian's cart. This seems to piss Ian off for some reason, judging by the way he narrows his eyes.

"I gotta keep working," Ian says.

"Hey, don't let me stop you," Lip replies, holding up his hands in surrender.

Ian stands there, as if he's waiting for Lip to leave. Then Lip gets it.

"You know what?" Lip says brightly, "Let me help."

He walks over to one of the modular sofas, picks up a Twix wrapper and a pile of spine shreds torn from somebody's spiral notebook.

"No," Ian protests, "Don't."

"Eh," Lip says, grabbing a discarded packet of Orbit gum from under the sofa, "It's no problem. You got a rag? Looks like somebody spilled some pop on the floor here."

"Stop. Please."

"Hey, it's no big deal."

"I don't need you to do my fucking job for me, okay?" Ian stomps over and takes the trash from Lip. A trail of the spiral notebook shreds floats down from his hands as he shakily dumps the trash in his receptacle.

Lip stops himself from picking up the paper. He waits to see if Ian's going to try and do it, but Ian ignores the mess. He just stands at his cart with his hands in his pockets again and looks exhausted.

"Will you sit down a sec?" Lip asks. What he'd really like to do is wrap Ian up in a blanket and send him to bed for twelve hours, but this is the next best option he can think of at the moment.

"I'm working."

"You can sit down for two seconds. There's not even anyone here."

Ian sits sulkily, folding his arms across his chest and keeping his hands hidden. Lip stops himself from rolling his eyes as he takes a seat beside him.

"So, you, uh, finally listened to something I said, huh?" Lip says with a smile.

Ian gives him a blank look.

"The school thing," Lip clarifies, "Fiona said you're doin' it."

Ian closes his eyes and sinks a little into the sofa, giving off the impression that he would drop right to sleep if he could.

"I'm only doing it to make Mickey happy," he says.

"Right," Lip says. Of course. He feels exhausted himself now.

"Well," Lip adds, trying not to show his disappointment, trying to keep an encouraging spin on things because it doesn't matter who got through Ian's thick head, "I think it's gonna be good. Says something too, that they picked you, right? You should…you know, you should be proud."

Ian opens his eyes again and smiles bitterly. "It's a fucking pity prize. They pick out some dumb shit on staff every year they feel sorry for and pat themselves on the back for sending him to a couple classes. Just so they can say they're lifting pathetic dumb fucks like me out of the gutter and giving them an  _education_. Makes them feel like they're doing something besides just catering to rich pricks who go here and hiring rich pricks to work in the administration. I'm just one of those Feed the Children kids in Africa."

Lip sits back, surprised by the speech and impressed by this analysis.

"Yeah, but so what?" Lip says, "Who cares why they're doing it? Take the money and run, man."

"Yeah. Money," Ian says, shaking his head, "How 'bout they just actually pay me more, huh? Instead I gotta do all this extra work for years just to have the  _chance_  to make more money."

"That's kinda how higher education works. What the fuck you think I'm doin'?"

"At least your ride's based on being smart. I'm a charity case. You're a good investment."

The guilt feels like it's tightening around Lip's throat, but he pushes it down and says, "Well, they must've seen something in you. I mean, they had a lot of people they could've picked, right?"

Ian doesn't give any response to this. He appears to have blown all his energy on his rant, and now he's just back to looking tired. Then he takes his hands from under his arms and holds them out, palms up. They're still shaking.

"Look at this shit," he says.

"That's normal," Lip says, "Side effect. I read about it."

"Yup. Normal."

They both sit there observing his hands, and Lip doesn't know what to say. He wants to offer up some answer that will fix everything, like how he could always fix the laptop when it froze up or could give Ian the trigonometry formulas he needed or mod the DVD player to play the crappy burned movies Ian swiped off the guy selling them outside the Mexican grocery. But Lip is tapped out of ideas. He doesn't know how to fix this.

The best thing Lip can come up with to say is, "It's a trade-off."

They both know this is an unhelpful thing to say. Ian drops his hands and stands up.

"I gotta get back to work," he says.

Lip watches Ian stoop to pick up the paper, scoop it awkwardly with both hands and dump it in his trash receptacle. He grasps the handle of his cart tightly and begins pushing it down the hall.

"I'll see ya," he says over his shoulder.

There's still some trash in the lounge, but Lip's pretty sure he doesn't have to point that out. Ian's not concerned about it now. Ian just wants to get away from him. Ian probably wants to get away from everybody.

Lip remains in the lounge after Ian has shoved off, listening to the rattle of the cart and its supplies as it bumps over each seam in the granite tile floor. He takes out his phone to check the time but only ends up staring at it, putting it away, then immediately taking it back out when he realizes he never actually processed what time the clock said.

He can still go to the library, get in some work on that research paper. Some work is better than none. There's that sorority party he promised Amanda he'd attend with her, and he'll have to wrap things up early enough to do that. But there's still time to be productive. He just needs to get off his ass and force himself to go to the library.

Instead, he swipes open his phone and calls Amanda.

"You free?" he asks when she picks up.

"More or less. Why?"

"Wanna get a drink and fuck before the party? No. Fuck then drink. Fuck before drink."

"We're gonna have drinks at the party anyway. How about study then fuck? Reward system."

"Fuck then study. Honor system."

"Girl Scout honor?"

"Boy Scout."

"Will you wear a jaunty neckerchief?"

"I'll tie you up in knots. How 'bout that?"

"That could work."

"See you at my room in five."

Lip ends the call and puts his phone away. He can still hear the cart rattling way down toward the other end of the building—everything echoes through that atrium.

Quickly, Lip makes his way out of there. He can't stand to hear that sound anymore.

* * *

Lip's feeling marginally better about the world, post-lay. Things seem a little less depressing, more manageable. He rolls over onto his stomach, looking forward to dropping into a peaceful, satiated nap and having that excuse to ignore his responsibilities for a bit longer, but Amanda shimmies into her clothes and whips Lip across the back with his.

"Ow," he complains, "Fuck."

"Dress and work. Now. You promised."

He grumbles and makes one last ditch effort to sink into his pillow, hoping she'll give up. But she whips him again with his jeans. It hurts.

"Fuck," he says again.

"God, I don't have time for this shit," she says, already taking her laptop out, returning her glasses to her nose, "Come on."

"Fine. Fine."

Lip dresses as slowly and half-assedly as humanly possible, not even bothering with his socks and his shirt. He sits back on his bed, takes out his Macbook and goes to the school library databases. Then he just stares at the search box for a bit, uncertain where to even begin. He clicks 'Advanced Search' and then stares at those empty boxes as well.

He sets the laptop aside and takes out his whiskey from under the bed to refill his flask. Amanda gives him a look.

"What?" he demands.

She shakes her head and returns to her work. Lip thinks she's not going to say anything but then she does.

"Getting a little dependent on that to work, aren't you?"

And that really pisses him off.

"You don't know shit, all right? Your perfect home and your perfect, terrible parents who care about you too much? You don't know shit. Don't talk about things you don't understand."

"Okay," she says lightly.

"No," he says, part of him eager at the prospect of having a fight so he can avoid doing this work and part of him bruised at what she is implying, "I know what alcoholism looks like, okay? You don't."

"All right. Fine." She shrugs the argument off.

Lip seethes. He spends far too long trying to decide if he should take a drink to show her, even though he no longer really wants it, or if he should just act casual about it, like he wasn't planning on having a drink anyway, was just refilling his flask to refill it.

When Amanda speaks again, Lip is still bracing himself for a fight, but what she says throws him off.

"What are you writing about for Steigler's class?"

He hesitates then responds, "Globalization."

"What aspect?"

"No clue."

"Well, talk through it. Tell me what your thoughts are on it, then we'll figure out what part of it you should be writing on."

Lip looks at her suspiciously, but her smile is all innocent encouragement.

"Come on," she says, "What is your opinion on globalization, Philip Gallagher? I know you have one."

Lip sighs, allowing the tempting fantasy of a distracting argument go. He puts his head back and starts talking about fucking globalization. Somehow it works too. He does have thoughts about it, an angle. Pretty soon they've worked out how he should be framing his paper and narrowed down his research terms. Goddamn Amanda. She's annoying as hell, but Lip reluctantly admits to himself that she knows how to play the academic game inside and out.

Somehow an hour or two passes and Lip has fallen deep into his research and collecting PDF articles like Mario coins. He's not reading through any of them yet, but saving them to his desktop in one big satisfying pile of potential accomplishment. He jumps when there's a knock at the door.

It's Ian. He's in street clothes now and looking sheepish. "Can I come in?" he asks.

Lip stands aside and closes the door behind him. Ian stands in the middle of the room awkwardly.

"Why is your hair wet?" Lip asks.

"Just came from the rec center."

"Ah."

Amanda hasn't even looked up from her laptop once but she does greet him, "Hey, Ian."

He seems surprised she knows his name. "Hey," he says right back.

Ian turns toward Lip and asks with kind of a fake smile, "Do you think I could borrow some clothes? I'm having dinner with the president day after tomorrow."

"Obama's that hard up for companionship, huh?"

"The president of the university."

"Nice," Lip says, resuming his seat on the bed, "What'd you do to get that date?"

"Everybody who's gotten an award this year has to show up at the president's house for this dinner. I just don't want to look like crap. Mandy said a while back you had a really nice suit."

"Well, sure," Lip replies, "But, Ian, that suit is not gonna fit you."

"I know it's not going to fit me."

"Then why—fuck, no, Ian. No way. I'm not lettin' Mickey—"

"That suit would be really hot on him," Amanda says.

"You think?" Ian asks.

Amanda nods. "Definitely." She turns to Lip and says, "Give him the suit."

"What the fuck ever," Lip mutters. He goes to the closet and takes out the suit in its protective vinyl bag. He hands it to Ian and says, "I want it dry-cleaned before I get it back."

Ian grasps the hanger with one hand and unzips the bag with the other. He holds the suit out and admires it.

"Mickey  _would_  look good in that," he says.

"Totally," Amanda agrees.

Lip brings his attention back to his laptop and does his best to ignore them. They're chatting now like they're best buds, Amanda telling Ian about the sorority party tonight, Ian being polite and pretending like he gives a shit. He should come, Amanda tells him, bring Mickey. Lip rolls his eyes and focuses in tighter on the list of available articles, though he's focusing so hard that the words are getting a little blurry and unreadable. He's feeling jealous, for some reason. He's not sure why or which one of them he's even jealous of. Lip concentrates on ignoring, ignoring, ignoring, but then Ian says something that catches Lip's ear:  _I'd come but I gotta work tonight._

"Work where?" Lip asks.

Ian looks back at him and Lip can see that Ian's been caught in something he didn't mean to say or didn't mean for Lip to hear.

"Working at school?" Lip asks, daring Ian to lie to his face and giving him all the options to do so, "You pick up an extra shift at night? Just fillin' in for somebody, or what?"

Ian's eyes remain locked on Lip's for a moment then Ian says simply, "At the Fairy Tail. I've been doing a couple nights here and there."

"Oh, that place over in Boystown?" Amanda asks.

Ian nods.

"What? Tending bar?" Lip asks.

Ian hesitates just a second then responds, "Yeah."

Lip allows this information to sink in. It solves the mystery of Ian's extra income though it doesn't seem right that he would have so much from part-time bartending.

"How often you workin' there?" Lip asks, "This a regular thing?"

"Couple nights a week. Anytime Mickey's working late and I've got someone else to watch Yevgeny. I'll drop in, pick up a shift."

Something doesn't feel right, but Lip can't figure out what it is. Maybe it's just the idea of Ian being back in that place that's unsettling.

"They don't care if you just show up without being scheduled?" Lip asks. He doesn't even know why the particularities of scheduling at a gay bar matter to him, but he feels like he has to keep this conversation going. There's something Ian's hiding. Lip's got to work it out.

"They like me," Ian says with a little shrug, "I'm popular."

Lip smirks at this statement and says, "Bartend with your shirt off and you'd probably be even more popular."

Ian gives him a patronizing smile and brings his attention back to the suit. He smooths it down and zips the bag back up.

Then Lip hits on it. "Mickey doesn't know, does he?"

Ian keeps his eyes on the suit bag and admits, "No."

"Why the big secret? What's he give a shit if you're tending bar and picking up some bucks? Think he'd be glad to have the extra money coming in."

"I bet you make really good tips," Amanda says.

"I do," Ian tells her. To Lip he says, "I don't want to worry him. He thinks it's a bad environment for me."

"What?" Lip asks, "The drugs?"

"Yeah. Mostly."

It takes Lip a second to realize what 'mostly' means. He remembers the way those guys were drooling over Ian when he was pouring drinks at The White Swallow, and Lip feels uncomfortable. No fucking shit Mickey doesn't want Ian around all that temptation.

"He doesn't trust you?" Lip asks.

Ian shrugs. "He thinks I'm too stupid to tell when somebody's trying to take advantage of me."

Lip is quiet for a moment, appreciating the odd recognition of something he and Mickey have in common. Then he asks Ian, "You trust yourself?"

Ian meets his eyes, surprised by the question. Then he glances away again and says, "Yeah. Of course. I just do my job and go home."

"You should have the tie that goes with that," Amanda says then, interrupting them both out of this conversation. Then she asks Lip pointedly, "Where's the tie I bought to go with that? And the shirt?"

Lip reluctantly follows her orders, glad to be off the topic of the club for now and to have that weird tension release a little. He takes the shirt from the closet, tie still strung around the neck of the hanger since he hasn't worn either since last winter. He hands these to Ian and asks, "Mickey got socks and underwear, or do I need to provide those too?"

Ian cocks his head and gives him a smile. "How about dress shoes?"

"You serious?"

"He hasn't got any. Hate to buy them just for this."

"I thought Mickey had little girl feet."

"He does. Just like you."

Ian's giving that smug little smirk he always used to wear when teasing Lip. Normally, Lip would say something cutting, remind Ian that he's not half as clever as he thinks, but Lip doesn't say anything, just digs through the bottom of the closet to find those shoes.

After this afternoon, Lip's just glad to see Ian in a fairly good mood. Lip is also relieved to have found out Ian's secret so easily and that it was not anything too terrible after all. So he's serving up drinks to drunk, horny gay guys in Lakeview. Big deal. And Ian's starting classes next term, and that will good for him, and, hey, even the tax bill has been taken care of. Things aren't so bad.

"So," Lip says, handing the shiny shoes over, "They helping you pick out your classes yet, or what?"

"You're taking classes?" Amanda asks.

Ian nods.

"Here?" she asks him.

"Yeah."

"Wait," Lip says, alarmed anew, "They're lettin' you take classes  _here_?"

Ian nods again and says, "Or I could take some stuff at the City Colleges. I can go to UIC or Northeastern, I guess, but I'd have to apply. They said that might be a longer process. Kinda just wanna get this done."

"Oh," Lip says, "Good. City Colleges. That sounds better."

"Why?" Ian asks. His amusement from earlier appears gone.

"Well, Ian, come on. The classes here are pretty hard," Lip says.

Amanda gives Lip a look of disappointment.

"The classes aren't really that hard," she tells Ian, "I mean, yeah, some of them are going to be more difficult than others, but if you keep up with the work, they're not so bad."

Ian does not look comforted by this statement, so Amanda adds, "If it's something you're worried about, you could just take as many of the subjects you aren't that great at over at Malcolm X or Daley and then transfer them in. My friend did that with French. Then just take the classes for stuff you're really interested in over here. I mean, there's a limit to transfer credits, but you won't hit that for a while. By then you'll be a pro."

Ian offers her a little smile, but he still looks disheartened. Lip is at a loss as to what is expected of him here. Amanda seems to be judging him, but he's not sure why. What's so wrong about stopping Ian from getting into a situation where he's just going to fail?

"What classes have you signed up for?" Amanda asks Ian.

"Nothing yet," Ian says, "But they gave me a list of stuff. It's all general…credit, I guess? Until I decide on a major."

"Gen Eds," Amanda nods.

"Yeah, that's right. That's what they're called. Sorry."

"Okay," she says, "If you're nervous, you should start with something you're really comfortable with. What are you good at?"

Ian seems uncertain, almost panicked at this question.

"English," Lip says, "He was always really good at English."

Ian glances over to Lip with surprise.

"Well, how about you start with an English class, then?" Amanda says, "Start knocking those credits out of the way while you get your feet wet."

"I guess I could," Ian says.

"Great," Amanda cheers, patting the space beside her on the bed, "Let's see what they're offering in Spring that'll work with your schedule."

Lip shakes his head a little as Ian takes a seat, still holding the suit, shirt and shoes in his lap while Amanda pulls up the Spring course offerings on her laptop. Amanda is in her element, and there's no stopping her when she gets on a roll like this.

Without a word, Lip takes the clothes from Ian and hangs them on the outside of the closet, dropping the shoes on the floor beneath. Then he sprawls out on Kuz's bed and opens up his laptop.

While Amanda explains to Ian how to read the class listings and how to crosscheck them with the catalogue to see what sort of credits things count for, Lip zones out. He starts speed-reading through some of that articles he downloaded, only vaguely aware of Amanda's college orientation patter. He completely loses track of what she's going on about until Amanda interrupts his thoughts some time later.

"Lip!"

"What?" he asks, rolling over to look at her. He almost laughs at seeing what an intimidated little kid Ian looks like sitting beside her. Amanda is half the size of him but she is clearly dominating everything.

"Where's the big pad of paper I bought you?"

"Really? It's time to draw up another schedule?"

"Yes," Amanda says, narrowing her eyes at him fiercely.

Lip sighs and pulls the oversized pad out from under his bed. Amanda sets her laptop on the nightstand and grabs a marker before Lip plops the pad into her lap.

"Okay," she says to Ian, "We're gonna see which of these classes is actually going to work for your schedule."

Lip leans back, amused now, as Amanda draws a grid and lists out the days of the week. It's nice to see somebody else suffering at her hand for once.

"All right," she says, "You work Monday through Friday?"

"Yeah," Ian answers, "Seven to Three."

Amanda adds this information to the schedule.

"And I go for a run in the morning before work. Five to six," Ian adds.

"Well, there's not going to be any classes that early anyway," Amanda replies, writing this down, "But we'll put it on there. Physical activity is important. I wish I could get Lip to give a shit about it."

"I know," Ian laughs, causing Lip a bit of dismay.

"It wouldn't kill him to go to gym once in a while," Amanda says.

"What the fuck?" Lip mutters but they ignore him.

"Oh, yeah," Ian says, reminded, "Then I go to the gym after work. That's usually like, three-fifteen to four forty-five."

"Nice," Amanda compliments him as she writes this down, "I like a man who takes care of himself. No wonder you look so good."

"Thanks," Ian says, and he's grinning. Fucking grinning, the little shit.

Lip sits down gingerly on the edge of Kuz's mattress, watching them with his brow furrowed.

"What nights are you bartending?" Amanda asks.

"Well, it depends, but most of the time it's Thursdays, Saturdays, and Mondays. Sometimes Wednesdays or Fridays, but not usually both."

"How long?"

Ian shrugs, "Seven or eight til two. If it's slow, I'll get out at one."

"When do you sleep?" Amanda murmurs as she marks this down.

"And these nights," Ian says, pointing out several days on the schedule, "I'm watching my stepson, so I can't really do anything else."

_Stepson_. Lip rolls his eyes at this as he makes his way over to the window, lifts it up and lights up a cigarette.

Then Amanda's cooing at the mention of Yvegeny and asking to see a picture, and Ian's got his phone out and Amanda's cooing even more, and Ian's beaming like a proud papa, and Lip could kick them both.

After the baby pictures have been safely tucked away again, Amanda repositions the pad on her lap and asks, "Anything we're missing?"

"Yeah," Ian says, leaning forward, "I coach track at my old high school on Tuesday and Thursday afternoons. Usually I skip the gym those days but, you know, I try to make it up and go for a longer run or hit the elliptical harder the next day."

Amanda nods as she adds this down. She seems surprised as Ian continues.

"I go to track meets on Sundays. Those are usually from nine to eleven. And Saturday mornings, I see my therapist. Every other Saturday at eleven, I see my Psychiatrist. And then Saturday afternoons Carl's usually got a game and I go to that."

Amanda writes all this down then sits back, looking over the schedule now covered in writing. "That everything?" she asks.

Ian peers at it and nods. "Yeah. I don't think I missed anything."

"Okay," Amanda sighs, "This doesn't leave us with a lot to work with. Can you take classes during your lunch break?"

"Yeah. They did say I could do that. Even if they run a little long."

"No," Lip says, louder than he means to, startling them both.

"You're takin' your goddamned lunch," he informs Ian, "And you're droppin' something else. Jesus Christ, Ian. You ever consider the possibility that maybe it's not your meds that are makin' you so tired all the time? Maybe it's your fucking life that's makin' you tired."

Ian is quiet, keeping his eyes on the schedule. Then he says in a low voice, "Mind your own business, all right?"

"No," Lip says, "No way. I'm not standin' around while you run yourself into the ground."

"Then stop watching me," Ian says tersely. He looks up at Lip and his eyes are exactly like they were that night in the bedroom when Lip confronted him about Kash. Lip sits back in reflex as Ian stands up, some instinct still saying that Ian's about to pin Lip to a wall again.

Ian doesn't though. He keeps his head bowed as he talks. "Stop creeping around and bothering me," he says, each word measured out carefully, "Stop telling me everything I should be doing and can't be doing and need to be doing. I can't take any more people telling me what to do."

He glances at Amanda with embarrassment and says, "Sorry. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," she says with uncertainty. She looks to Lip for guidance, but he doesn't acknowledge her.

Lip's eyes are trained on Ian, watching him pivot on his feet as if Ian can't remember where the door is. Lip's not certain if he's watching Ian have some kind of a breakdown, or just the frustrated end of a shitty day.

"Ian," Lip says, trying to make his voice as calm and reasonable as possible, "You need to—"

"No," Ian says, his voice still ominously low, "I don't need anything. I don't need you."

He moves for the door and as he does so, Amanda reminds him, "Take the suit."

Ian pauses as if uncertain whether he should, but he does take it. He scoops up the shoes as well, holding them against his chest as he lets himself out.

After Ian has gone, Amanda turns toward Lip, but he can't look at her. He smokes and keeps his eyes down on the desk. He'd like to toss his desk chair through the window right now, but he can't, so he just sits there and pulls on his cigarette like a fish gasping on the shore.

"I think—" Amanda starts to say, but Lip shakes his head.

"Shut up," he says, "Please."

And she does. God bless her, she does.

* * *

Normally, Lip doesn't mind the sorority parties Amanda drags him to, although he's careful never to say such a thing out loud to her. It's fun seeing rich girls dress trampy as hell and get drunk off their asses. It satisfies both his scopophilia and his class resentment. He thrills a little at the potential things he could do, although he never really acts on any of it. Tonight this is not doing anything for him, though. The fact that there's nothing but watery keg Miller Lite isn't helping either.

He finds a corner of the house to hang out in with his Solo cup and broods. He tries not to think about anything, and yet all he does is think about everything. He's growing more depressed and hopeless with every sip, with every fucking Iggy Azalea song that plays, until Amanda hunts him down and sits beside him.

She rests her head on his shoulder, and that feels nice. She smells good.

"I think college is making me dumber," he says.

Amanda neither confirms nor denies this. But she remains beside him, and that's all right.

"I have an idea," she says after awhile.

"What's that?"

"I'm tired of looking at frat boys and basic bitches. And listening to this shitty music."

"Understandable."

"I want to go ogle some hot pieces of ass who aren't going to spend the whole night hitting on me."

"All looking, no obligations?"

"What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing," Lip smiles, "But where you gonna find this?"

"How about we go visit your brother at work? Bet he'd give us free drinks."

Lip sits up, forcing Amanda to sit up too. He looks at her aghast.

"And you could make up with him," Amanda offers, "It'd be a chance to apologize."

"What do _I_  have to apologize for?"

"Sometimes you just have to apologize. He seems like he's having a shitty time lately. Why add to it?"

Lip doesn't have any retort to that. It's discomforting, trying to argue with someone who's better at arguing than you. Lip's still not used to it. The worst part is, she always kind of has a point.

He glances out at all these people he can't stand and considers that maybe he'd like to feel like a good person tonight. A good brother, at least. The kind who's willing to apologize even when he hasn't got anything to apologize for. Lip would like to be that person.

"All right," he says, "Why not?"

* * *

They're both already a little buzzed from the party and they horse around on the train, making each other laugh and probably annoying the shit out of everybody else in the car. When they get off at Belmont, Amanda seems to know exactly where she's going. Lip gets the impression this is not her first time going out to gawk at the gay rodeo.

She also gets them past the bouncer without them even having to show their fake IDs. Not like there's some line of people waiting on the sidewalk to get in, though. This club is skeevy, sadder even than that other place where Lip found Ian tending bar last winter.

There's a fair amount of patrons, though, for a weekday night. It takes a while for Lip and Amanda to worm their way through the masses in the general direction of the bar. When they arrive there, however, Amanda doesn't get the attention of any of the bartenders immediately, the way she usually does. Lip is amused at her miffed expression, though he tries to keep his smile to himself.

He watches her shift her shoulders and crane her head over the bar, desperately trying to catch someone's attention. Lip allows her to practically tire herself out then he leans past her and makes eyes with one of the bartenders. It ain't Lip's first time at the gay rodeo either.

"What can I get you?" The bartender asks him.

"Uh, Ian?" Lip asks.

"What's an Ian?"

Lip looks at the guy's blank but beautiful face and holds himself back from a smart remark. Jesus, Ian must be considered a damn genius in this dump.

"No," Lip says, "Ian. Guy who works here."

The bartender continues with the blank expression.

"Ian," Lip repeats, "He's a bartender here. Barboy. Whatever."

"Ian?"

"Yeah."

"Never heard of him. You gonna order a drink or what? Or you interested in something else?"

"Something else…" Lip trails off in confusion. He's suddenly not feeling quite so confident in his ability to fit in here. But he shakes that off and remains focused on what he came for.

"Listen," Lip says, trying to keep his annunciation as clear as possible for this moron, "Can you ask around? Somebody's gotta know Ian."

The bartender sighs irritably and snaps at the other bartender, "Hey! You know an Ian that works here? Bartender?"

The second guy shakes his head, never taking his eyes off the cocktail he's mixing.

"Tall kid," Lip says loudly, "Red hair. He's kinda hard to miss."

"Bartender?" The second guy asks, finally offering Lip a glance.

"Yeah."

"No, man. Sorry."

"Shit," Lip mutters.

"You want anything else?" The second bartender asks, raising an eyebrow at Lip.

"No," Lip replies, careful not to acknowledge the eyebrow. Then he adds, as an afterthought, "Thanks."

He stands back gloomily from the bar and keeps his eyes on the floor as he thinks. Amanda has somehow procured a drink during Lip's conversation with the bartender, and she seems to be enthralled with the dancers on stage.

"Maybe he usually works a different shift," Lip says to her, "Or maybe he's not workin' tonight after all."

"Oh, Ian's working tonight," Amanda says with a strange, knowing tenor to her voice.

It catches Lip's attention, and he finds himself following her gaze to the stage.

There is Ian, on display, nearly naked. He is up on a platform, dancing for a knot of sweaty older men who occasionally slip cash into the waistband of his tiny, glittery green shorts, letting their hands linger near his bulge or his ass or run down his thigh until Ian expertly shifts them off. Lip's eyes dart over the fingers that keep slipping into the elastic at his brother's pelvis, brushing hungrily over the muscles of Ian's lower abdomen or exposing the little trail of red hair as they tuck the cash in deeper than it needs to go, pulling the waistband down with them. Then Lip's eyes make their way up Ian's flexing, writhing torso, past his bony neck—he looks paler and more fragile than ever in this light—up to Ian's face. Ian's eyes are shaded by his lashes, lids lowered to half-mast, but his face is eerily empty of all expression, as if he performing a task like any other. The sensation in Lip's body is like someone has injected his veins with mercury, replacing all his blood and oxygen with liquid metal. He can feel himself dying rapidly, all that quicksilver filling his lungs and settling heavy into the deepest pit of his gut. Death is cold and swift.

"I'm fucking the wrong brother," Amanda remarks.

Lip ignores her, unable to see anything but the nightmare in front of him. Blindly, he pushes forward through the throngs, taking the shortest path through and over strange, disgusting men toward his brother.

Lip stops just before he reaches the final circle of hell, a pack of animals gathered around Ian's platform.

Ian is facing away from Lip, dancing for the other side. Lip watches the array of hyper-defined muscles shift in Ian's back, between them each individual vertebrae works together into a beautiful curve that moves like a sound wave to the beat. How many times in his life has Lip seen that same string of vertebrae; how many times has he punched them, kicked them, tickled them in the pool? How is this the same spine? How is this the same skeleton inside the same skin inside the same little brother?

"You interested in Curtis?"

Lip pays no attention to the voice until it repeats closer, hot against his ear. "You wanna buy some time with Curtis?"

Lip wrenches his eyes from Ian and looks at the man who is talking. He seems like a bouncer, maybe. Something like that. He is big and burly, different than the other young men working here.

"He for sale?" Lip manages to ask, surprised he has any voice at all.

"Private dance is twenty," the man tells him, "Everything beyond that you work out with him."

Lip's mouth is too dry to form words now, but he doesn't think he has the wherewithal to speak anyway. He looks back at the stage. Ian is working his way back to facing this side of the room.

"He's one of our most popular," the man says, continuing to chase the sale.

Ian sees Lip.

Ian's head freezes before the rest of his body follows suit, his eyes going big and Bambi-like.

Lip turns away. He forces his way through the crowd, elbowing and shoving his path to the door. He processes none of it until he is back on the street, the cold air slapping into his face, hurting his eyeballs and the inside of his nose.

He stands on the sidewalk, uncertain what to do or to think or where he is supposed to be moving. In his eyes, he still sees Ian, his deathly white skin, those hands trying so desperately to break off pieces of him for their own…

"Lip?" Amanda calls, huffing to catch up with him, "Hey, you okay? That was a surprise, huh?"

He continues to stand there, eyes on the concrete but not seeing it, only seeing those muscles and bones, the familiar vertebrae…

"They called him Curtis," Lip mumbles stupidly.

"Curtis?" Amanda laughs, "That his stage name? Like Ian Curtis? He's got a darker side than I would've thought."

"Huh?" Lip looks up, finally registering her.

"Ian Curtis. You seriously don't know?"

Lip furrows his brow. He has no idea what she is talking about or why she is talking at all.

"You really have to listen to my 'dumb 80s shit' more often," Amanda says. She is trying hard to keep her tone light, Lip realizes. She is worried about him. He doesn't care.

"I gotta go," Lip says, and he starts walking swiftly for the el.

"Where you going?" Amanda asks, struggling to keep up with him, "Back to school? Let's just get a cab."

"No," Lip shakes his head, bowing it down away from the cold, "I gotta go home."

Amanda stops short in surprise. "To the Yards?" she asks.

Lip doesn't answer, but he moves on without her, covering a block in what feels like seconds. He needs to leave this all behind more than he has ever needed to leave anything before.

* * *

"What're you doin' here?" Fiona asks, pausing with somebody's Coke refill in her hand.

Lip blinks in confusion, not certain quite how he arrived here. It's so bright.

"Lip? You all right? You look like you're havin' a bad trip."

Lip puts a hand through his hair, leaves it standing on end as he watches the pies and cakes rotate in the glass display case. He wonders why there's never any slices cut out of them if they're not fake.

" _Are_  you havin' a bad trip?" Fiona whispers.

"Can…can we talk?" Lip says.

Fiona bites her lip, then grabs a menu and steers him toward a booth.

"I'll be right back to get your drink order," she tells him in a professional tone then abandons him to bring the refill to the other table.

When she returns, Fiona brings a glass of water and sets it in front of Lip. "Drink that," she tells him.

Lip doesn't move.

"You're scarin' me," Fiona says, "What is going on with you?"

Lip takes out his cigarettes with shaking hands, but Fiona stops him. "You can't do that in here," she says.

He looks up at her helplessly.

Fiona sighs. She grabs the elbow of another passing waitress and asks her, "Can you take three for me? Just for a couple minutes?"

The waitress glances at Lip then nods at Fiona. At the busboy station, Fiona pours a cup of coffee. Then she takes a slice of coconut cream pie out of the cooler. She sets both in front of Lip and sits down across from him. She witholds comment as he takes out his flask and doctors the coffee before drinking.

After he's had a steadying sip, she asks him, "Will you tell me what's going on?"

Lip still can't figure out how to get his brain enough around what has happened to get it into words. Fiona coaxes him to eat the pie. He chunks off a forkful, at a loss for what else to do, but then realizes what needs to be said and abandons the pie.

"We fucked up," Lip says.

"What else is new?" Fiona scoffs, looking away then back at him. "But what'd we fuck up this time?"

"Ian."

Fiona's sarcasm fades. "Shit," she says softly, "What's goin' on with him now?"

"Found out what he's up to. How he's makin' all the extra cash."

Fiona splays her hands out on the edge of the table and looks at them as she asks, "He dancin' again?"

"You knew?"

"I knew he was doin' it before. Thought maybe he'd gone back. It's good money."

Lip lets this sink in. "I thought he was bartending," he says, feeling like an idiot, "Last winter."

Fiona looks at him almost wistfully and says, as if she is envious of his naïveté, "You really thought that?"

Lip doesn't have any answer for this. How the fuck was he so stupid? How the fuck did he miss it on top of everything else that was going on with Ian last winter? A kid like Ian in a world like that, living how he was living…how the fuck did Lip not know what that meant?  _Bartending_. Lip is such a fucking moron.

And Christ. How is he ever going to break it to Fiona what all of this really means? It's gonna kill her. Lip doesn't want to be the one to tell her how far their brother has truly fallen. He can't do that to her, can't make her feel like he feels right now, like the world is somehow even shittier and more cruel than Lip ever imagined.

"Maybe he's just dancin' now," Fiona offers hopefully, and Lip realizes that there is nothing he has to tell her. Lip's the only one who held onto the possibility that his brother's life might be anything less than awful. Lip's the fool. Not anyone else.

Lip gulps his coffee miserably and says, "He's not just dancin'."

Fiona turns away from him hastily to wipe her traitor tears with her palm. When she faces back, her eyes have gone all Bambi-like just like Ian's.

"Why would he do that again?" she asks, her voice creaky, "He's better now."

Lip shakes his head and drinks his coffee. "He's not better," he says, "He's broken."

"Don't say that," Fiona snaps, "He's got good meds and good doctors. He's doin' so well, Lip. He's doin'  _great_."

"I'm not talkin' about the bipolar shit," Lip sneers, irritated that she could think it was so simple as that when it's so much worse. God, he wants a cigarette. He needs to get out of here.

Fiona looks confused and starts to say something, but she's interrupted by the other waitress passing by and saying bluntly, "Three wants pie," indicating that she's done covering for Fiona's ass.

Fiona groans and tells Lip as she gets up, "I'll be right back."

Lip fidgets with his pie, mushing it around without actually eating anything and he watches Fiona talking with the customers. She's worn-out, Lip can tell, but she's putting on an upbeat, flirty demeanor in an attempt to secure her tip. It makes him think of Mandy that time he saw her at the Waffle House all those months back, and he doesn't like this.

He drags his eyes away from his sister and stares down at his pie while he sips the coffee.

He's thinking now about that time when he was fourteen—Ian must've been thirteen, not in high school yet but tall enough to look it—and Fiona sat the both of them down on Ian's bed. She'd shooed Carl out, which they both knew was not a good sign. Lip can still see the worried glance Ian had given him.

It was not a good time. Monica had shown up long enough to have Liam, dump him on his siblings, and then she'd run off again. The wound was still fresh. And with the excuse of Monica having left again, Frank had disappeared into one of his more colossal benders. There'd been Frank sightings all across the neighborhood, but he hadn't been home for over a week. Things were getting desperate. Fiona was watering down the canned soup to the point where it was almost clear.

"Think ya guys could take turns watchin' Liam at night?" Fiona asked, "I finally got a lead on a job where I can make some real money, but it's nights."

"What?" Lip joked, "Are you turning tricks on the bridge?"

Fiona didn't laugh. Instead she explained that a girl she knew was making good cash "dancin'" at a club and had offered to introduce Fiona to her boss.

"Strippin', you mean?" Lip asked.

Before Fiona had been able to dress this up, however, Ian jumped in firmly.

"No," Ian said, "You're not doing that."

"Yeah," Lip agreed, following this lead with as much macho bossiness as he could muster at fourteen with his stupid squeaky voice, "We'll figure something out."

Fiona tried to reason with them further, explain why this was the best option they had, how it really wouldn't be all that bad, but once the brothers realized they had to protect their sister's honor, keep her from ever having to debase herself like that for them, there was no argument left to be had.

"We'll take care of it," Lip told her as Liam started wailing and they pushed her off to go attend to him.

Ian and Lip stayed up late into the night brainstorming, trying to figure out how the hell they could get enough money to make Fiona feel like stripping was no longer the kind of option she'd even consider. Lip did most of the talking, running through several scenarios, though Ian was unusually adept at pointing out the fault in each plan. It was a frustrating night.

In the morning, they both skipped school, agreeing to split up and return at the end of the day with money somehow. All they needed at that point, Lip told Ian, was enough to be a stopgap, tide them over until Lip thought of a real plan. Ian nodded determinedly, and they parted ways, Ian heading one way down the alley, Lip the other.

Lip found himself going downtown to Millennium Park. It was a gorgeous day, and he ended up running a scam, selling Segway tour tickets to sightseers and directing them on a wild goose chase as to where they could secure the actual Segways. He changed location frequently, kept moving, only had to outrun an angry dude once, and by the end of the day he'd made close to two hundred bucks.

When Lip met up with Ian back at the house around four that day, Lip showed off the bills proudly. To the pile, Ian added twenty-two dollars.

Lip sniffed at the paltry amount and asked, "What the hell did you even steal to get that?"

"I didn't steal anything," Ian said, "I got a job."

"What? Like a job-job? Where you work?"

"And they pay me, yeah."

"That's your idea? How the hell are we gonna live off twenty bucks at a time?"

"At least it's regular," Ian argued, seeming a little offended, "Twenty bucks buys food."

"Yeah, for, like, two days," Lip said, but then he felt a little bad at Ian's offense. It wasn't Ian's fault Lip had left him to figure out things on his own. "Well, at least it's something," Lip told him.

When they put the cash down on the kitchen counter for Fiona, she burst into tears.

The boys went to bed that night congratulating themselves with smug looks and shoulder pats. They'd rescued Fiona. They were holding up their responsibility as brothers. The family, even without Monica and Frank and their sporadic cash, was solid.

Before they drifted to sleep, though, Lip had hissed down at Ian, "Where you workin' anyway?"

"Kash and Grab," Ian replied, sitting up on his elbows.

"By the el?"

"Yeah."

"With the Arab guy?"

"Yeah."

"How'd you get him to hire you?"

"Told him I was sixteen. Didn't ask for proof."

Lip snorted. "Dude's probably got a thing for little boys."

"Fuck off," Ian laughed, and settled himself back into bed.

That laugh.

Lip bolts from the booth. He's out of the restaurant before he even registers Fiona calling after him.

* * *

By the time he rolls into The Alibi Room, Lip's already made a couple of pit stops, seeming unable to sit with his thoughts longer than a drink or two in any one place. Somehow he's keeping it together though, and Kev doesn't seem to notice that Lip is a walking bag of whiskey when he sits down.

"Out on a school night?" Kev teases, taking a glass from the backbar and pouring without asking.

"You waterin' my drinks down?" Lip demands to know, leaning over the bar.

Kev holds up the bottle of liquor and the glass and looks affronted as he says, "You see any water here? I don't see any water."

Lip watches the bottle and the glass overlap then pull apart. Then they overlap and pull apart again. His eyes hurt.

"B-before," Lip slurs, "Were you doin' it before?"

"Doing what?" Kev asks suspiciously. He no longer seems to trust Lip and has yet to offer him the glass.

"Lookin' out for me."

Kev continues to stare at Lip for a moment then he sets the drink under the bar and returns the bottle to the shelf. He leans forward and says quietly, "I'm looking out for you now."

"Fuck you," Lip mumbles. He has a strong urge to lay his head down on the bar, but fights it. Instead he folds his arms tight and bows his head. It seems like this should hold him in one place, but he still feels like he's just stumbled off a tilt-a-whirl.

When Lip realizes that Kev is no longer standing there, he reaches over the bar and, despite mitten hands, somehow manages to secure his drink. He sits back and gulps.

When he closes his eyes, all he sees are big, man hands grabbing out for everything they can steal. He sees birdy shoulders by the bathtub, Ian pale and sick after Lip confronted him with the porn magazines. And broad solider shoulders that Lip could no longer pull or yank toward any direction he wanted. Then bony shoulders like the bird grown up, showing pale and tinted under a rainbow of club lights.

Lip opens his eyes and Kev is back.

"Something going on with you tonight?" Kev asks. Casual. Too casual.

"You could've been our dad, right?" Lip asks.

"What's that now?"

"With the…when the girl left…the Mormon chick…"

Kev peers at him until he figures it out. "Ethel?"

"Ethel. Right. Ethel. With the good dirt."

"What about Ethel?"

"No, it's not about Ethel. Why is nobody ever able to follow me?"

"Too smart for all of us, man."

"Yeah," Lip sighs, looking down at his drink, "I'm real fuckin' smart."

"You okay?" Kev asks.

Lip looks up, brought back to his point. "When Ethel…when you didn't have Ethel anymore, you guys…you tried to adopt us, right? Fiona, like…tried that, right?"

"Yeah," Kev admits with hesitation, "Didn't get very far, though."

"Would you have acted like our dad? If it happened?"

"I don't know," Kev remarks, "Don't see how you and Ian would've stood for that."

Lip shakes his head side to side. He doesn't realize he's taking the glass side to side with him until Kev removes it from his hand.

Lip is startled to find the glass no longer in his grip. He looks up at Kev again.

"Would you have protected him?" Lip asks.

"Who?"

"Nah," Lip answers his own question, "Woulda been too late."

"Have some pretzels," Kev says, taking a bowl from under the bar and laying it in front of Lip, "Soak that up a little."

"Kash," Lip says to himself, "Don't even know how long…I didn't ask, you know? The fuck didn't I ask? And Frank? Fuck…Frank, Kash…fuck…"

"Frank take money from you guys again?"

"Why would I think Frank would ever leave him alone? Like that…story…with the snake. Aesop or some shit? You knew I was a snake. What'd you expect? What'd I expect, Kev? Snake is a snake…" Lip laughs bitterly and asks, "How do you kill a snake?"

Kev considers this and says, "Foster Dad used to cut 'em in two with a garden hoe."

"They're both snakes. All snakes. Whole world full of snakes…What do snakes eat?"

"Uh," Kev says, "Mice. Snakes eat mice."

"That sounds right. Mouse in a snakepit," Lip says and drops an imaginary mouse by its tail onto the bar, "Good luck, Ian."

Kev leans in and asks in a low voice, "Ian okay?"

Lip looks Kev in the eye and says, "Of course not."

Lip doesn't understand why Kev is looking back at him like that. This is not news. Not to anyone who's not Lip, anyway. They're all smarter than this average bear.

"I'm like Algernon," Lip mutters, still thinking of mice, "I'm just gettin' dumber…"

Ian wrote a school essay on that story once. It was a good essay. He'd asked Lip to look it over, and Lip couldn't find anything wrong with it. Lip doesn't remember exactly when that was. Eighth grade, probably. When Ian started working.

"Can I get my drink back?" Lip asks, "I really need a drink, Kev. I'll…I'll go somewhere else if I can't…"

Reluctantly, Kev repositions Lip's glass on the bar top. There's very little left in it, and Lip is surprised and relieved to see Kev take down the bottle and pour in another inch of liquor.

"Take that real slow," Kev instructs as he pushes the glass toward Lip, "Baby sips. It's not going anywhere. You don't go anywhere either, all right?"

Lip waves Kev away and sips on. Then he discovers that he can support his head with one hand and still drink with the other. This is good. His head is so heavy. He closes his eyes and feels warm and sleepy. He might already be asleep; he can't quite tell. Sleep would be so nice, though…

Someone takes the glass out of his hand and Lip feels like he's bench-pressing his eyelids, trying to lift them open.

"What's goin' on with Ian?" Mickey demands to know.

"Kev get you?" Lip says blearily, "Fuckin' snitch."

"What's goin' on with Ian?" Mickey asks again, "Somethin' happen?"

"Oh, nothing," Lip says, reaching for his glass though it takes two attempts to get his hand on it, "He's just fine forever. He's got you. You're gonna fix everything. All the things where I screwed the pooch…"

Lip ignores Mickey's confused glare and sloshes the whiskey around like a tiny whirlpool in the bottom of his glass. "True love fixes everything," he mutters and finishes his drink.

Mickey sighs and shifts to an expression of supreme annoyance. "That's what you're goin' on about? Came here just to bust my balls again about bein' with Ian? You gotta fuckin' let this shit go, man."

Lip hops off the stool, wobbling, and grabs onto Mickey for a second to steady himself.

Mickey jerks away from him, but Lip tightens his grip and pats Mickey on the chest.

"You should be home," Lip whispers as Mickey tries to duck his face back away from Lip's breath, "Bad things happen when you leave him alone. Snakes eat mice. Even the smart ones."

Mickey shoves him off and Lip stumbles backwards toward the door.

"Good luck," Lip says, letting himself out and waving over his shoulder at his befuddled brother-in-law, "I hope you do a better job than I did."

* * *

Lip throws up twice along the way. After the second time, he lays in the snow for a while, marveling that he doesn't feel cold at all. He could really just stay here if he wanted, thaw out in the spring…get a proper burial then.

Somehow, though, he finds himself rolling over and back onto his feet. He trudges with determination because there's somewhere else he prefers to die tonight. He wants to go back in time. Back to before everything went to shit. If he can curl up and die there, then none of it every really happened.

At the Gallagher house, though, the door is locked, and Lip can't seem to remember how his key functions. He scrapes at the doorknob with it and then starts pounding and hollering. He's not even sure what he's hollering about or if it's even human, English speech. Noises seem to be just pouring out of him.

Then something hits him hard across his back.

"Fuck!" Lip cries, collapsing onto his knees. Pain is radiating through his back.

"Oh, my god, Lip!" Debbie squeals, dropping the baseball bat to the porch with a thump, "I thought you were Frank!"

Debbie crouches down beside him, but the porch light isn't on, and Lip can barely make out her face. She pokes the place where the bat connected with him and he whimpers.

"Sorry," Debbie says, either for hitting him in the first place or for now poking him. Then, almost as explanation for her actions, she asks, "What's  _wrong_  with you? You sounded like a crazy animal."

Lip doesn't answer and Debbie stands up again. She steps over him and unlocks the door, having apparently crept up from around the back of the house before, which makes sense, some distant part of Lip's brain informs him.

"Come on," Debbie says, as she takes Lip's arms and drags him over the threshold. She pauses to open the vestibule door and then drags Lip into the living room proper. She leaves him there to go retrieve the bat and close the door and then she stands over him.

"You're strong," Lip remarks.

"You're drunk," Debbie replies, "You look horrible."

Lip has no words. He tries to move, but he can't. Everything is hopeless.

There are footfalls in the upstairs hallway and Debbie abandons Lip to run up the stairs and catch Liam before he comes down.

Lip hears Debbie tells Liam in a soothing, vaguely irritated-sounding voice, "Go back to bed. It's just Frank."

Perhaps it really has happened. Perhaps Lip has finally become one with Frank. It's believable. Inevitable, really.

Debbie is gone for what feels like it a long time, but might be only a minute or two. Things seem to disappear into nothingness, including all Lip's thoughts. Then Debbie is back, staring down at him.

"Lip?" She asks, "Did you just pass out?"

"Why'd you tell Liam I was Frank?" Lip asks.

"Because if he knew it was you, he'd want to see you. I don't want him to see you like this."

This sinks in hard. Lip wishes he'd stayed back in the snow bank. Then he rolls over and Debbie bends down to help him up.

"I'm sorry I fucked you guys all up," Lip tells her as she gets under his shoulder and helps him toward the stairs, "I'm sorry I'm not…I'm not good. I should've been better."

"I don't think you fucked anybody up," Debbie tells him plainly, working with him slowly each step at a time.

Lip says nothing in response to this because he doesn't believe her. He's ashamed that she has to lie to him.

"Where's Carl?" he asks instead.

"At Connor's."

"Who's Connor?"

"His best friend? From football?" Debbie says this as if it's supposed to jog Lip's memory. But he's a shit brother who's pretty sure he's never heard of any best friend or any kids from football. All of their lives are a fucking mystery to him. And why wouldn't they be? Who the hell would share anything with Lip?

They make it to the top of the stairs at long last, but instead of getting to a bed, Lip breaks away from Debbie and stumbles to the toilet.

He's mostly dry-heaving, but he tries to get out whatever is left in him. If he could just spew out his heart and his lungs and his idiot brain and the stomach that hasn't felt good in months, maybe he could actually be better.

Things disappear again.

Lip opens his eyes at the scent of vinegar invading his nose. He's on the floor in the bathroom and rolls back, looking up. Debbie is kneeling beside him with an open bottle of white vinegar. Her face looks pale and terrified.

"What happened?" Lip asks, struggling to sit up.

"You passed out," Debbie says, "Should I call V?"

"No, no," he says, "Just…just help me to bed, okay?"

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

Appearing not entirely sold on the idea, Debbie helps him anyway getting to his feet and walking. She starts to lead him toward his room, but Lip veers for the boys' room instead.

He sits hard on Ian's old bed and then watches drowsily as Debbie immediately goes to Liam, wakes him up and leads him out of the room, careful to shield his view with her body so he never even notices Lip. She babbles cheerfully about Liam sleeping in her bed tonight, and the sleepy kid easily agrees to the idea. Lip is a monster.

Lip pulls his legs up onto the bed and curls up as small as he can get. There are just so many thoughts in his brain that won't stop repeating, banging up against each other, making him feel woozy and beaten down.

Debbie comes back offering a glass of water, but Lip isn't interested. As she sets the glass on the night table, he asks her instead, "Can you Google something for me?"

"Um, okay," Debbie says. She takes her phone from her pocket with weariness and asks, "What do you want me to look up?"

"Ian…"

"You want me to Google Ian?"

"No. No. Another Ian. Ian Something."

Debbie knits her brows and Lip puts a hand to his head in irritation, trying to remember. Then he hears that bouncer guy say  _You wanna buy some time with Curtis?_

"Curtis," Lip blurts out, "Ian Curtis. Look him up."

Debbie gives him a troubled look, but then types it in. She starts reading the search results out loud:

"Top Ten Most Famous Rock and Roll Suicides. Famous Suicides. Famous People Who Hung Themselves…"

Lip can't stop the tears; they are just there, sudden and abundant. He doesn't even know what it means, if it means anything. None of it makes any sense, but he is overcome with grief for Ian. Lip was supposed to protect him. Instead he wandered off into this dark, horrible world alone. God knows what happened to sweet, happy Ian. God knows who Ian is anymore, where that kid went…

"Lip?" Debbie says in a tiny voice as the tears stream down his face and his body heaves.

He can't look at her, and he can't stop blubbering now that it's started, so he flops down and buries his face in Ian's old pillow. He sobs, choking in the scent that should smell of Ian—the Ian Lip used to know—but doesn't. It just smells musty now; the sheets probably haven't been changed in a year. Ian is gone.

At some point, Debbie crawls up behind him and puts her hand on his shoulder, which only makes things worse.

"Lip?" Debbie asks gently, "Is there anything I can do?"

Lip doesn't answer. But as she gently creeps back off the bed and leaves him alone, he feels more depressed than ever. Even Debbie's given up on him.

His sobs eventually break down to some choked sniffles and snot, making the pillow a soaked, disgusting mess from which he doesn't even deserve to move. His brain doesn't slow down, though. It's running a continuous loop of Lip's Greatest Hits of People Disappointed—Ian, Fiona, Karen, Mandy, Debbie, Carl, even Monica—all the times he was cruel or callous, all the times he didn't care or didn't care enough…and still he sees those hands grabbing, Ian packaged in those tiny, garish shorts like a Christmas gift for carnivorous perverts…Ian smiling while tending bar that first night Lip had finally found him after all those months away, smiling far too false, speaking far too happily and empty—Lip let that go. Lip let himself be mad at Ian. He let himself put off the worries that sight set off in him…Ian in bed at the Milkovich house, everyone so surprised that Lip could be so detached about it. He wanted to be cold; he needed to be cold. Lip couldn't have kept everything going if he'd let himself feel what everyone else was feeling. He thought he was being the responsible one, the rock. But when has he ever done anything but fool himself into believing this? How responsible was he when he gave in to Ian's babyish romanticized demands about Kash, chose staying in Ian's affection and good graces over Ian being safe from that pervert? How much of a rock was Lip when he went to grammar school to be feted as a genius and left Ian behind at the mercy of Frank? Just shoved Ian into the snakepit and expected him to be okay, that sweet, trusting kid with his laughter and his freckles and his fucking Bambi eyes…

There is the Greatest Hits of things Lip knows he fucked up, but there is also the endless picture show of his imagination, covering all possible scenarios of awful things Lip probably has allowed to happen. This keeps the tears coming afresh, turns his stomach dangerously.

But then someone strong has got Lip by the shoulders and is forcing him to sit up and turn away from the wall.

Ian puts his face right up to Lip's and says, "What the fuck is wrong with you? You're scaring the shit out of Debbie."

Lip just stares at him. It's as if all this thinking about Ian has caused him to materialize from nowhere, looking disgusted and angry with him. Lip's not quite sure if Ian is even real.

"Jesus," Ian murmurs and wraps an arm around Lip's shoulders. Ian lifts him easily from the bed and hauls him to the bathroom. He dumps Lip in the tub before Lip has even gathered his wits together enough to move and turns on the shower.

"Oh, shit!" Lip cries under the cold downpour, scrambling to find his feet, failing entirely and slipping back onto his ass, "Fuck! Shit! Fuck!"

Ian lets the water run another moment or two before he switches it off.

Lip is shivering in the tub, his clothes clinging and saturated with cold. His brain does feel a little bit clearer, reamed out with the alarm of temperature shock. He looks up to see Debbie peeking in the doorway just as Ian tells her, "He's just being a drunk idiot. Go to bed."

Debbie is hesitant and Lip watches Ian soften. He bends down to give her a half-hug and pushes some stray strands of hair off of her face.

"It's fine," Ian says, "I got it. Go get some sleep."

"Sorry I called you so late," Debbie says to him.

"Nah, it's all right," Ian assures her, "Just let me handle it now, okay?"

Debbie nods solemnly. She looks toward Lip before she leaves and says, "Hope you feel better."

Lip puts his head back against the tile and closes his eyes. He has never felt worse in all his life. If he had the wherewithal to put the plug in the tub and drown himself right now, he would.

After Debbie has gone, Ian commands Lip, "Up."

Lip barely opens his eyes, exhausted by his own shame, but Ian is not fooling around. Lip manages to get himself to his feet and allows Ian to wrap him in a towel as he steps out of the tub, like Lip is Liam fresh from his evening bath.

Ian leads Lip back to the bedroom and sits him down on Ian's old bed. Then Ian gets down on his knees and rummages under the bed for a bit until he emerges with a plastic baggie, all rolled up. Ian takes a lighter from the nightstand and sits beside Lip.

Lip reaches for the joint as Ian lights it, but Ian shakes his head and pulls away slightly.

"You've had enough shit tonight," Ian says. He nods toward a cup of coffee that has appeared on the nightstand while they were away (probably brought up by Debbie) and adds, "You can have that."

Reluctantly, Lip sips the coffee. He still feels horrendous, but he's a little more lucid now. The mug is nice and hot too. He holds it between his hands and it subdues his shivering.

"You got a shoebox under there I never knew about, or what?" Lip asks, struggling to turn his mush of brain into normal-sounding conversation.

"Hole in the box spring," Ian replies. He reaches and pulls a blanket from the end of the bed, then puts it over Lip's shoulders with a tenderness that embarrasses Lip and explains, "Only way I could ever keep my good stuff away from you and Carl."

Lip forces himself to smile, still trying to appear normal, "Where'd you even get good stuff?"

"Mickey."

"Ah." Lip can think of nothing more to say than that. He truly has become Algernon now; he feels so confused and tired and stupid. And here Ian is, acting so effortlessly calm and smart. It's fucked up. It's not supposed to work like this.

"You gotta cut this shit out," Ian says.

Lip doesn't answer because he's not even sure what shit it is that Ian's referring to. There are so many options to choose from.

"You're drunk or half-way there every time I see you these days," Ian clarifies, "You're too fucking smart to be that dumb. You got too much to lose."

Ian sits back deeper on the bed, leaning back against the wall and adds, "And anyway, we can't have two of us being nutcases. That's too much for Fiona. Too much for the kids."

Lip struggles to figure out how this ended up being about him. Ian's supposed to be the one with the problem. Desperately, Lip claws his way back toward that and some sense of control. He asks, in the best judgmental tone he can manage, "You just come from the club?"

Ian takes another hit. After he exhales, he says, "I was at home. Getting ready for bed."

Lip realizes that it's actually that late. Ian has already finished his shift at the club and gone home. Where did the time go tonight? It frightens Lip that he can't account for it. To make himself feel momentarily better, he turns that uneasiness back at Ian. It's time to get into it; focus on the real problem.

"What the hell are you doin'?" Lip asks. He doesn't need to be any more specific than this. He can see Ian's posture stiffen. Ian's uncomfortable, even if he's trying not to let on. Lip can still read Ian's body language like the index to a map.

Ian is quiet for a long while, long enough that Lip starts to think Ian's giving him the silent treatment and simply not going to discuss it. Eventually, though, Ian lowers his eyes and examines the joint as he says, "It's good money."

Lip stares at the joint now too, trying to wrap his worn-out mind around this. How the hell…He struggles to put speech together, act as if this is any kind of recognizable logic. "Nothing's that good, Ian."

Ian continues to feign fascination with the joint, but when he speaks, his voice is steady and direct, "Tell that to Fiona when I can keep the heat on here. Keep them all fed and get Debbie and Carl and Liam what they all need. Fiona's barely bringing in anything."

"That's not your responsibility."

Ian huffs a humorless laugh. "Who else is gonna do it?"

"I will," Lip says, rubbing his hands over his eyes, glad to get back to some kind of argument, "I'll figure somethin' out. But you're not goin' back there again."

"Yes, I am," Ian replies, "I'm not passing up this chance."

"What chance?" Lip asks, horrified. Once again he feels like Ian is having an entirely different conversation that the one Lip is having, like all Ian's reference points for reality are different. It's disorienting.

Ian is quiet again. He seems to be organizing his thoughts into words and Lip refrains from interrupting him. He can't force actual reality back on his brother; Lip's not even sure what actual reality is at this point.

"I don't have anything else to give," Ian says after a bit, "I'm dumb and I'm crazy. I've got no education. Nothing I'm good at. All I'm ever gonna be able to get are shit jobs like I've already got. And that's if I'm lucky. Nobody else is offering me any way to make money like this. And I gotta…I gotta do it while I can. These drugs are turning me into a fat slug, making me look like shit. They started me on this new anti-whatever last weekend? Now my hair's coming out in the shower. Nobody's gonna wanna pay me for anything pretty soon."

Lip struggles to figure out which of the dozen points of faulty logic here he should start with, but it's all making his heart hurt as much as his brain. He settles on just saying, "There are better ways to make money."

"Not this kind of money." Ian finally looks at him and Lip gets the sense that Ian's confessing his sins as he says, "Do you have any idea how much I was making last winter? People will pay you a lot to do weird shit."

Lip's stomach tightens at the thought of what people might be paying Ian to do. The possibilities are too unbearable right now to contemplate further, so Lip once again grapples for any friendly facts he can hold onto. "What happened to all that money? You got it stashed somewhere?"

"Snorted it all, mostly," Ian says, bowing his head and looking ashamed for this first time tonight, "Bought some clothes and shit. Stuff for other people. I don't even know. Real Monica of me."

Lip shakes his head at this. God, he needs his brain right now. "There's better ways to make money," he repeats, "Shit that isn't…shit that…what about school?"

Ian sniffs at this and raises an eyebrow. "Yeah, that's gonna work great. If I don't flake out and fail, I should be promoted to Custodial Supervisor in what? Ten years? That's gonna help everyone out a lot."

"It's a long term goal," Lip hears himself explaining stupidly, "Bigger picture."

"Long term goals don't help Fiona. She needs help now."

"Then let  _her_  do the dancing, all right?" Lip spits out in frustration, "Problem solved."

Ian gives Lip a disgusted look at this.

"What?" Lip asks, "She's the one with the responsibility. Let her pay her own bills. She's a big girl. If lapdances and..whatever…are the answers to all her money woes, let her do it."

"It's different."

"Bullshit. How the hell is it any different?"

"It's just different. Anyway, I can handle it. It's not a big deal."

Lip seethes while Ian inhales again and closes his eyes, looking far too peaceful for this conversation. Lip gulps his coffee and runs through his options for argument. His brain is coming back now; he can feel the synapses starting to fire right again.

"What about Mickey?" Lip bursts out, glad to have finally,  _finally_ , landed on something that's gonna hit Ian where he cares, "You're supposed to be fuckin' married, right? How the hell does this fit into that?"

But Ian doesn't even bother opening his eyes. "Doesn't count. I don't do anything that counts."

"Oh, you got rules about this, huh? Strict moral guidelines on the acceptability of suckin' strangers' cocks?"

"You don't understand," Ian replies simply.

"I  _don't_  understand; you're right. Ian, what the fuck? What the fuck is wrong with you?"

Ian shrugs. "What isn't?"

"No. No. Don't default to that bullshit. This is…I mean…" Lip battles to articulate all of his thoughts from tonight as he looks at Ian and asks, "Would it be different if I'd stopped it?"

"Stopped what?"

"The shit with Kash. And Jimmy's dad. I should've…I didn't…I just let you—"

Ian rolls his eyes. "I'm not some fucked-up little child abuse victim. It's just a job, all right? No big deeper meaning. Don't try to act like some shitty shrink. It's a job. I do my work. I come home. Fiona and the kids get to stay in the house. Everybody's all right. Nobody gets hurt."

Lip studies Ian's profile, certain that there is something there, something that he's caught onto that Ian can't hide under his serious little soldier act. Then Lip gets it.

"This isn't about Fiona, is it?" Lip says, "You like doin' this."

Ian opens his eyes and  _there_. Lip's hit it.

Ian starts fidgeting almost immediately, his armor crumbling off at a speed that would be comical if it wasn't so sad. He smiles a little as he tries to speak, starting and stopping a few times before he manages to twist it all into a shape he finds presentable.

"You—you told me earlier it was a trade-off, right? The medicine and shit and everything else? Everybody keeps telling me that. 'It's a trade-off. It's a trade-off.' But, you know, when it's a 'trade,' you're supposed to get something back."

He looks to Lip beseechingly, begging him to understand as he says, "I traded everything. My future. My body. Everything I was good at. My mind's long gone…there isn't anything I haven't lost. And what do I get?"

"You get to be functional. That's not nothing."

"Yeah," Ian laughs, " _Functional_. Fuck…"

Lip sits patiently with his coffee while Ian works out what the point he's trying to make is.

"When I'm there," Ian says finally, "I'm perfect. All those people think I'm perfect. Go ahead and kill me for liking that."

Lip is quiet, trying to think of something remotely adequate to say to this, but his attention is drawn to another matter. He looks at Ian and whispers, "I'm gonna be sick."

Ian blinks and realizes what Lip has just said.

"Okay," Ian says. He hauls Lip up and hustles him back to the bathroom.

Lip crouches in front of the toilet with his face resting on the dried-piss-spotted rim and waits. His heart throbs in his ears, breath holds in his chest, and he waits, waits, and then it comes. He vomits all the coffee right back into the bowl and wishes, for probably the eightieth time today, that he was dead.

Ian, meanwhile, has taken a seat on the edge of the tub and is calmly smoking. It's a strange presence for Lip's humiliation. But it seems fitting.

When Lip has finished, he roles onto his side and lies on the floor panting. He is eye-level with the heating vent. As he stares at the thick webs and balls of dust that have accumulated in the grating, his mind wanders absurdly to a visual map of the heating system in the house. Lip knows where all the ducts run in this house, which are weaker or stronger than the others, where they all meet up with the furnace in the middle part of the basement. His brain traverses over and over this map, but it keeps ending up in the basement. And Lip remembers that time he came home from Kindergarten with Fiona and they couldn't find Ian.

It wasn't that unusual for Ian to be missing. Several times they'd come home to find that Frank had taken Ian out with him—Frank did like having someone to talk at—but then returned home without his tag-along. They'd picked up Ian at a couple of bars, a convenience store, strangers' houses, and once the homeless shantytown under the el tracks. But this time had been cause for panic because they couldn't find him anywhere. Until they did find him in the basement. He'd been hiding and fallen asleep. They never got it out of him what he was hiding from.

Lip hasn't thought about this in almost fifteen years. And now suddenly he can't push it back to wherever it surfaced from.

"Did shit…happen?" Lip whispers from the floor, "That year you were home with Frank? Before Monica came back?"

"No," Ian says.

"You stopped talkin'," Lip mumbles, working it out to himself, "That was when you started gettin' quiet. I wanted to think it was 'cause you were just gettin' older. But you were such a little kid. You used to be so happy…"

"Nothing happened."

"How do I believe you?"

"Just do."

Lip closes his eyes, but now Ian's hauling him up and dragging him back to the bed.

"You gotta get some sleep," Ian tells him as he removes Lip's shoes and gets him under the covers, "You got classes tomorrow."

"No," Lip protests, even as drowsiness creeps up his body and settles into his head, "I gotta figure all this shit out."

"You don't have to figure anything out," Ian says, "I got everything covered."

Ian sits on the edge of the bed and says, "I want Fiona to have a life. I want you to have a life. So, don't fuck things up at school. Stop worrying about what's going on down here. I got everything under control. You don't worry about it anymore." He pokes Lip in the chest and says, "You just worry about you."

Ian turns off the lamp and starts to head out. Before he reaches the door, however, Lip calls after him in one last attempt to fix  _something_  tonight.

"I'm sorry I was such a shitty brother," Lip says, "I should've taken better care of you. I should've paid more attention."

Ian shakes his head and switches off the overhead light. He says one final thing, and it lingers in the darkness after he has left:

"You did great."


	6. I Am Trying To Break Your Heart

It was summer. Lip had turned thirteen after leaving Ian behind at twelve. Monica was back, and Monica was enormous. That's what Lip remembers: coming around the side of the house and being confronted by her big belly.

She was sitting on the back steps in that same stretchy tie-dyed dress she'd worn almost daily throughout these last few months of her pregnancy. She was smoking, which wasn't surprising, but it took Lip a second to realize that it was pot, not cigarettes. This still wasn't anything all that unexpected, and Lip would have just kept on along his way, judging silently, but then some movement behind Monica caught Lip's eye. Ian was sitting on the step behind her. As Ian scrambled to hide the bowl and lighter he was holding, Lip's shock and anger erupted from nowhere.

"What the hell?" Lip said.

"Oh, Lip," Monica replied, leaving it at that. Oh, Lip. That was pretty much all she had said to him over and over again since she'd come back, as if Lip was just walking around in a constant state of unreasonableness.

He glared at Ian, expecting some kind of a response from him at least, but Ian refused to look up, shrinking back behind Monica once more. Coward.

Disgusted with them both, Lip marched right back the way he came to the front of the house. He stood in the yard for a minute or two, uncertain what to do with himself and his annoyance. He settled on shoving Debbie's bike into the fence and then stomping into the house.

In the kitchen, Fiona didn't look up from the table where she was helping Debbie and Carl with their homework. Lip grabbed an Old Style from the fridge and considered taking a seat with them, but instead went to the living room and threw himself down on the couch next to Frank.

"Hey, son," Frank said, not taking his gaze from the television, "How's it going?"

"You guys are terrible parents," Lip remarked, opening his beer.

Frank shrugged. "Got a fresh start baking in the oven. Gonna do it all right this time.  _Leave It to Beaver_ , the whole enchilada."

Lip rolled his eyes and drank his beer.

They watched  _Wheel of Fortune_  in more or less companionable silence until Monica came in and settled in on the other side of Lip. Just as she attempted to squeeze Lip into a Frank and Monica sandwich, Lip slouched down and Limboed his way off of the couch and safely onto the floor, still keeping his beer upright.

"Oh, Lip," Monica said again in that stupid, useless voice.

Lip ignored her and made his way upstairs. There was no escaping anyone annoying in this house today.

In the bedroom, Ian was sprawled across his bed shirtless, his bony little chest as white as his blanket. The fan was going in the window closest to Ian's bed so Lip plopped down beside him, already feeling suffocated by the hot stickiness of the second floor.

"Stop blocking the air," Ian complained, but Lip didn't move.

Instead, Lip looked down at Ian's glassy eyes and informed him, "That's really stupid."

Ian didn't say anything in response to that so Lip carried on. "I don't want you doin' that again," he said.

"You're not my mom," Ian replied, obviously amused by his own cleverness.

"Your mom's a fucking idiot. You wanna end up like her?"

Again, Ian said nothing, so again Lip lectured.

"You can't afford to get any dumber."

"You think I got dumber this year?" Ian asked this as if it were simply a conversational question, just casually dropping in the revelation that this wasn't a first-time thing.

That hurt, even though Lip couldn't place why. Ian and Monica always seemed to share these little moments, these little secrets. Lip was too old to be jealous, though, so this hurt had to come from somewhere else. It had to be that he was just angry that Monica was coaxing Ian into doing things that were bad for him. Ian was too young and Lip seemed to be the only person in the house who realized this. How was he, at thirteen, the only adult around here?

"Yeah, I think it's making you real stupid," Lip said.

Ian seemed unfazed by this, though, just kept his eyes on the whirring box fan and drummed out a rhythm with his fingers atop his stomach. Sweat was starting to pool at his solar plexus.

"Move," Ian commanded, kicking out at Lip ineffectually, "It's so hot."

"You move."

"I was here first."

"Fuck you."

Then Ian shoved Lip hard off of the bed with surprising strength. Somehow Lip had expected the weed to render Ian weak and lazy, Monica-like.

But Lip surprised himself as well because the next thing he knew, he was back on the bed, on his knees this time, and he was doing his best to pummel his brother. Ian held him off, though, managing, with an ease that further infuriated Lip, to get him by the forearms each time Lip tried to throw a punch. This was bullshit. It was bad enough Ian was taller than him now; he shouldn't get to be stronger too. Where the fuck did Ian get off with any of this?

The worst part was that Ian seemed so amused, like it was funny that Lip was trying to fight him and getting nowhere, like it was funny that Lip would want to stop Monica from dragging Ian down into the idiot abyss with her, like it was funny that she always liked Ian better.

Lip kneed Ian in the stomach, which loosened his grip on Lip's arms long enough that Lip snuck in an actual hit. He punched Ian right in the ribs.

Ian yelped in pain. Startled, Lip sat back. He hadn't meant to actually hurt Ian. At least he was pretty sure he hadn't meant to.

Quickly, Lip tried to justify it as having been part of him making a point.

"Will you stop now?" Lip said, "Don't be like them."

"What do you care?" Ian grumbled, rubbing his ribs and grimacing, "You're a hypocrite."

Lip sniffed. "You learn that on one of your spelling tests? You shouldn't use words if you don't know what they mean."

"I do know what it means. You're a hypocrite. It's okay for you to do it, but if I do it, it's bad."

"I don't do it," Lip said before he realized that he shouldn't have admitted this. It just gave Ian one more reason to feel superior.

Ian looked at him in astonishment. "Never?"

"Fuck off," Lip said, growing hot with embarrassment, "I'm not an idiot like the rest of you."

Lip picked his beer back up and stomped away, looking for just one spot in this house where he could be alone. He couldn't find any place, though. The van was way too hot and he would've been burned to crisp on the roof. Eventually, Lip gave up and went to the library, the only real escape from a family that just kept getting bigger and dumber. The air conditioning wasn't bad either.

By the time Lip got home a few hours later, the sun was lower, and it was significantly cooler. He made his way up to the roof and settled in to mope with a book on AI. He didn't get very far into it before Ian climbed onto the roof too, carrying a 2-liter of Sunkist with him.

Ian sat down beside Lip, took a chug from the pop bottle then lifted his t-shirt.

"Check it out," Ian said proudly, displaying the already-purple bruise on his ribs.

Lip said nothing, but Ian didn't seem particularly bothered. He peered over Lip's book while handing him the pop.

"Robots again?" Ian asked.

Lip swallowed a gulp of the pleasingly prickly cold liquid and said, "Artificial Intelligence. Robot versions of the human brain."

Ian nodded. Then he pulled something from his pocket and set it in front of Lip: a lighter, a little clay pipe, and a Ziploc of weed.

"You giving it up?" Lip asked.

"No," Ian laughed, "I'm sharing. Peace offering."

For a moment, the two of them just looked at each other. Ian was clearly not buying Lip's self-righteous, anti-drug act, and Lip honestly wasn't buying it anymore either. He was glad he didn't need to explain himself, though. Somehow Ian had known exactly how to set things right.

"You swipe this from Monica?" Lip asked, examining the pipe.

"Nah. She gave it to me. Birthday present."

Lip could not recall ever having received a birthday present from Monica. He swallowed that bitterness down, though, and picked up the baggie.

"Here," Ian said, taking the baggie and the pipe back from Lip, "I'll show you. It's easy."

It wasn't quite as easy as Lip expected or Ian made it sound. It took Lip numerous tries to get a proper inhale, and when he did he almost threw up from the coughing. But Ian was patient and amused, encouraging Lip through several more hits.

"It's really good your first time," Ian assured him.

After a bit, Ian stopped egging him on and peered at Lip.

"You feeling anything?" Ian asked.

"Time's a little weird," Lip replied, feeling like he was missing bits of a conversation that may or may not have happened.

"Yeah," Ian said, "That happens."

"You gonna smoke too?"

"No, I'm good." Ian rolled up the baggie and returned it to the pocket of his jeans and sat back on his elbows.

Lip wasn't sure exactly how much time passed, but some definitely did while he flipped idly through his library book and Ian surveyed the neighborhood. Then Ian sat up and inspected Lip's eyes.

"Yeah, you look high now," Ian remarked.

Lip couldn't stop staring at his brother, though.

"You're beautiful," Lip murmured in awe, taking in the endless variations of browns—some more tan, some more auburn, some more chocolate—of Ian's freckles, and the intricate milky way of clusters and constellations they formed across his face, onto his ears and down his neck. Lip had seen those freckles millions of times but never until now realized how fascinating they were.

Ian laughed and the freckles crinkled and formed new patterns, to Lip's amazement.

"You're definitely stoned," Ian said.

"You have red eyelashes," Lip replied, unable to stop gaping at Ian. All his colors and details had never been so vivid and interesting. "You even have freckles in your eyes."

Ian didn't say anything to that, just continued to sit there as Lip peered at him. When Lip reached out to try and feel the texture of Ian's hair, though, Ian sat back sharply.

The unexpected movement caused Lip to pause and he became very aware of his hand frozen in the air between them. And, more than his hand, Lip became aware of his fingertips. Then he started to giggle about this and he couldn't stop for what felt like ages.

Ian kept him company for a while up there, flipping through Lip's library book while Lip started rambling about artificial intelligence. Lip wasn't sure how much sense he was making, how much Ian would understand even under normal circumstances, but it didn't matter. It was just nice.

As Lip's high faded and he just lay there on his back, feeling peaceful, Ian said something that seemed like he'd been considering for a while.

"I won't smoke up with Monica anymore if you don't want me to."

Lip reached over and took Ian's hand from the book and clutched it in his own, like Lip was a dying action star in a movie. Ian was such a good, loyal kid. He was the best sidekick ever.

Ian laughed at him and gently extricated his hand from Lip's grasp.

"I'll just do it with you," Ian said.

"Good boy," Lip said, "You're so nice."

For some reason, that made Ian laugh too. Lip closed his eyes and reveled in the sound. It sent his drowsy brain off on a series of memories and strange Tinker Toy connections to other ideas, each one evaporating as he hopped over to the next. Lip wasn't quite sure if he slipped into actual dreams or not, but eventually he opened his eyes and felt awake again.

When he looked at Ian, tried to catch sight of those hyper-realized details, they were gone. Ian just looked like he always did.

A couple years later, Lip and Karen snuck into the Art Institute on a lark while downtown. They'd gone in mostly to make fun of the people, maybe boost some pricey shit from the gift shop, but they'd ended up having a look around and not hating everything they saw. They derided most of it, but there were a couple of moments where one or the both of them found themselves struck dumb. The thing that Lip found most interesting, though, was the fact that, in real life, you could see the globs of paint, the marks left behind by brushes and scrapers, all the little tells of humanity that didn't show up in reproductions of the paintings in school books or on TV. When Lip thought back later about how captivated he'd been by the little details of his brother that first time getting high, that was sort of how he understood it; for just that one moment of time, Lip had seen Ian's brushstrokes.

* * *

The phone is ringing far to early for a Saturday morning. Lip emerges slowly from beneath the weight of his hangover, first his body coming back into motion, then his brain.

It's Fiona calling, and that causes his stomach to tighten in apprehension.

"Hullo?" he answers once he remembers how to swipe open a call.

"Can you help me, please?" Fiona snaps. Just by the tone of her voice, Lip can already picture that her eyes are too big and harried and that she's got stray strands of hair flying out of place.

"What's wrong?"

"Everything. Every fuckin' thing. Carl quit the football team, first of all."

"Oh, yeah?" Lip asks, not the slightest bit shocked.

"Yeah, and he kicked a whole bunch of holes in the plaster just to be a shit, I guess. He's not talkin' to me. Ditchin' work too. That makes me look real great after I went through all the trouble to get him that job."

"All right," Lip sighs, "I'll talk to him."

"Good luck. And Debbie stayed out again all last night."

"Fuck."

"You know she asked me this week if I cared if she got on the pill. What am I supposed to say to that?"

"Fuck."

"So she's not speakin' to me either. Went right back out again this morning, refusin' to watch Liam. And Carl won't either. I had to  _beg_  Sammi to take him just so I could go into work today. You know I don't like leavin' him with her."

"Can't Ian watch him?"

Fiona takes a deep breath and says, "That's the other thing."

"Fuck. What happened now?"

"Well, according to V, Kev told her that Iggy told him that Mickey and Ian had some blow-out fight, and Mickey walked out."

"For real?"

"I mean, I don't know, but…he's not answering my texts or my calls. I'm really worried about him. I don't want him to…you know, I don't want…"

"Can you go over there?"

"Not 'til later. I'm on my way to my Saturday double. I  _cannot_  miss any more shifts right now."

Lip sits up and reaches for his cigarettes. He hasn't spoken to Ian since the other night after Lip saw him at the club. Lip's been doing his best to avoid thinking about him ever since, taking on a general policy of drowning out that voice with a little Old Crow every time it pipes up. His hands fumble as he lights up.

"Do you think you could check on him?" Fiona asks.

Lip exhales his first drag and rubs his pounding temple with the back of his hand.

"Yeah," he says, "I'll head down there now."

"God, thank you," Fiona says, the relief evident in her voice.

"I'll take care of it."

"Let me know, okay? If…"

"Yeah."

After hanging up with Fiona, Lip finishes his cigarette while gazing over the pile of books and papers strewn across Kuz's bed. Kuz has barely been around lately—he's spending almost all his time at his new girlfriend's place—so Lip's essentially turned the whole room into a desk, though it's starting to look a little like the desk of some John Nash type. Lip did get some work done yesterday, though he's still behind on everything. He'd begged off his cafeteria shift for today with the plan that this would be his big catch-up day, the day Lip finally fixed everything and got it all back under control. That certainly isn't gonna happen now.

He goes to the mini-fridge on the off chance that Amanda has restocked it like the good little girlfriend/nanny she is. Bingo. He helps himself to a single-serve carton of orange juice and unfolds the cardboard top until the mouth is wide enough that he can add whatever he wants to the juice. And what he wants is more Old Crow.

The doctored drink is an attempt to soothe his pounding head, as well as his nerves. The thought of seeing Ian now, of seeing him in  _that house_  in some Monica-esque lump once again makes every muscle in Lip's shoulders tense up. He's not ready for this. He will never be ready for this.

Grimly, he grabs his discarded jeans from the floor and begins to dress.

* * *

Lip chain-smokes all the way from the train stop to the Milkovich house, standing for a few minutes on their front porch in order to finish the third cigarette since he didn't actually have time for it. When he has stubbed it out, he knocks on the door and finds that it just falls open in front of him.

"All right," Lip says to himself.

He enters the house cautiously, feeling like a rabbit being lured into a trap. There's no sign of any snare or even a carrot, though. The TV is blaring a commercial for term life insurance while one of the Milkovich brother/cousins is snoring on the couch. No one else appears to be around.

Lip grabs for some kind of a weapon from the coffee table full of junk and is surprised when the first object he latches onto turns out to be a fucking billy club.

He holds the club defensively as he checks out the kitchen (nobody there) and then heads down the dark hallway. The door to Ian and Mickey's room is not completely closed and Lip pauses outside of it, listening. He can hear nothing, though but the TV still blaring in the living room.

Slowly, slowly, Lip uses the club to open the door a little wider. When nothing happens, he pokes his head in.

Ian is sitting on the bed in just his boxers. He's got his knees bent and a book propped up on them. He's smoking a cigarette, calm as can be and barely raises his eyes to acknowledge Lip.

"Hey," Lip says, stepping into the room.

"Hey," Ian replies, returning his attention to his book, "Fiona send out a rescue party?"

"Pretty much."

Ian rests his cigarette on the side of a very full ashtray and holds up his arms, displaying his clean, white wrists.

"All intact," he says, "You can go home and tell her."

"Tell her yourself," Lip replies, taking a seat on the edge of the bed, "You couldn't even bother sending her a text back? 'Everything okay, don't worry'? How hard would that be?"

Lip reaches for the cigarettes sitting on the headboard and that's when he gets a real look at Ian's face full-on and sees that he's got a black eye.

"That asshole hit you?" Lip asks, extracting a cigarette from the pack.

Ian appears confused, then annoyed. "No," he says, "Mickey didn't hit me. Jesus."

"Who gave you the shiner, then?"

"Doesn't matter."

Lip rolls his eyes. He takes out his own lighter since it's easier than asking Ian and lights up. After he exhales, he asks, "So, what happened?"

"What do you  _think_  happened?"

Lip is bewildered. "I don't know."

Ian gives him a look of utter contempt.

"I don't know," Lip repeats, "How the fuck should I know what goes on between you two?"

Ian sucks on his cigarette angrily before he asks, "Why did you tell him?"

Lip lowers his eyes from Ian's glare. There's something unstable about it, something that makes it feel like at any second Ian might reach for Lip's throat. It's even more unsettling than Ian's creepy insistence that Lip knows what the hell Ian's talking about, as if they've been having a long conversation prior to this and Lip has simply forgotten. There's something off and threatening about Ian's whole demeanor. It reminds Lip unbidden—oh, god, he did not bid this memory to surface—of how he had felt when he was very small and confronted with Monica's unpredictable temper.

He toys with the edge of the blanket, wishing he'd had more to drink before he showed up here. But he didn't, and he still has to deal with this. Lip doesn't want to say it, but he has to so he does:

"You go off your meds, Ian?"

Ian pauses, his face growing somehow even more contemptuous. He snatches an elaborate plastic pill organizer from the bedside table and slams it down next to Lip.

"Fuck you," Ian says.

Lip has no idea how to make sense of this complicated pill sorter, but he assumes that this is evidence that Ian has in fact not gone off his meds.

"They stop workin' again?" Lip asks, setting the sorter aside, "'Cause you're not makin' any sense."

Lip watches Ian take a couple of deep, slow breaths and swears he can hear Ian counting faintly. Lip wonders if this was something Ian learned in therapy for handling his temper. Or maybe Ian's just counting down the moment to attack.

"Somebody told Mickey about me working at the club," Ian says in a quiet, even tone, "He found out about it right after you did. And you're the only person who knows. I know you think I'm stupid, but I'm not  _that_  stupid."

"Shit," Lip mutters. He reaches out to put his hand on Ian's shoulder, but Ian jerks away.

"Hey," Lip says, "I swear to God I didn't say shit to Mickey. When the fuck do I even talk to him?"

"You didn't have to talk to him," Ian says, his hands shaking as he takes another drag off his cigarette and keeps his eyes on the sheets, "It was a text."

"Okay, I definitely didn't text him." Lip takes out his phone and tosses it across the mattress toward Ian, "Look and see. I didn't text Mickey. I don't think I've ever even texted him in my life."

Ian scowls and picks up the phone. After perusing a few screens, he says, "Yeah, never texted him in your life, huh?"

Lip leans over to look and sees that Ian's pulled up the conversation Lip and Mickey had several weeks back, making arrangements for their ill-fated playdate in Bronzeville.

"Oh," Lip says, "I forgot about that."

"The hell were you guys doing?"

"Trying to make peace. Mickey's idea, actually. Not mine."

Ian scowls. "Why?"

Lip exhales deeply, knowing Ian isn't going to like this. "Apparently, your shrink said somethin' about you gettin' all stressed out about me and Mickey not likin' each other. So Mickey decided we should bury the hatchet. Didn't work out, for the record."

Ian is shaking his head with his mouth open, seeming to be at a loss for words.

Finally, he spits out, "Where do you guys get off talking about that shit and going behind my back?"

"Well, I'm your brother and he's technically supposed to be your husband, right? Kinda our business to worry about you."

"No, it's not. It's not anybody's business."

Lip leans forward, genuinely annoyed now, and tells him, "You're not the fuckin' boy in the bubble, Ian. You do actually live in a world with other people in it. People who give a shit about you. You don't get to dictate how much everybody's allowed to care."

If it were possible for there to be actual flames in Ian's eyes at this statement, there would be. Ian's mounting temper is alarming Lip, so he does his best to walk things back a little.

"So, what happened?" Lip asks in a carefully controlled tone, "This all went down last night?"

Ian takes a deep breath, his anger transitioning into an air of despondency. "Yeah," he says, "We were coming back from dinner at the President's house. For that award thing? And then he got this text and he just…"

"So, what? He walked out and hasn't come home yet?"

It seems like Ian's having a hard time speaking before he simply says, "Milwaukee."

"Huh?"

Ian looks at Lip dead on for the first time in this conversation, his eyes bigger than they've ever been.

"Mickey went to Milwaukee?" Lip asks, trying to give him an assist, like he's interpreting Lassie.

"Yeah."

"So, you got into a fight after the president's dinner thing, and he just took off?"

Ian sighs. "Yeah."

"Wait. Was he wearing my suit?"

"What?" Ian appears confused then he returns his eyes to the bed and settles back into his bleak recollection, "Yeah. Yeah, he was wearing your suit."

"Was he wearing it when he took off? He took my suit with him to Milwaukee?"

Ian seems puzzled and annoyed by this line of questioning, as if it doesn't matter that Mickey Milkovich fucked off to Wisconsin in Lip's $3,500 suit.

"Yeah," Ian says, "So what?"

But Ian looks so miserable that Lip decides, reluctantly, to drop it. He's never gonna see that damn suit again.

"Okay," Lip says, pivoting back to the story, "So why Milwaukee?"

"Svet—Svetlana has a friend there who's been after her to train for this job thing. Not, not like rub and tug stuff. Like for a real job. Accounting stuff, helping out in an office for a couple months."

As Ian continues reconstructing this memory, the ash is growing long on the end of his cigarette. Lip reaches over and takes it from him, taps it onto the ashtray and hands it back. Ian doesn't even seem to notice, just takes a drag as if he's been holding it the whole time and blows the smoke out pensively.

Lip waits for the rest of the story. Ian doesn't seem to be in any hurry to finish it.

Ian fidgets with the pages of the book he'd been ostensibly reading before then looks up with a mask of resignation on his face.

"Mickey's got an uncle there he can do work for," Ian says with a little shrug, "Decided to go."

"All right," Lip says, "Milwaukee's not that far. How long's he gonna be there?"

Ian shrugs again.

"But he wasn't plannin' to go until last night?" Lip asks.

"He didn't even want  _her_  to go. Didn't want to split up the family."

Lip doesn't know what to say to this. If sounds ridiculously domestic and nothing like the Mickey Lip's ever met.

"He doesn't even want to be near me," Ian mumbles as he puts a new cigarette between his lips and lights it.

"That's his problem," Lip says, ready to launch into an attack, defend Ian at all costs. But Ian winces, so Lip backs down on this approach. He racks his brain for something else to say, for something that will comfort Ian or at least just stop him from looking so defeated, but Ian switches the subject back to the thing he seems to be so oddly focused on.

"If you didn't tell him," Ian says, "Then who did?"

"Who else knows you've been workin' there?"

"No one," Ian says, his eyes distant but focused as he runs through some invisible list, "No one Mickey knows."

"Amanda," Lip says, running through the possibilities out loud, "But she doesn't know Mickey. And she doesn't give a shit. Fiona."

Ian's eyes dart back to Lip at this information.

"Sorry," Lip says, "Think she kinda knew already anyway."

"Fuck," Ian murmurs, "She wasn't supposed to know. Nobody was supposed to know."

"Long past the point of that," Lip remarks. "But I don't think Fiona told Mickey."

"No," Ian agrees and seems to get lost in thought again, that same look of obsessive concentration appearing once more.

"What does it matter, anyway?" Lip asks, "Who cares how he found out?"

"It matters a lot," Ian snaps, "Whoever told him ruined everything."

Lip is squelches the urge to point out that it was Ian who has done all the ruining here; it doesn't seem like the smartest time to bring this up. It feels safer to let Ian focus on this irrelevant whodunit, let him work on it the way you distract a dog with a bone.

"Maybe it wasn't the text," Lip offers, "Maybe that's throwing us off."

He can almost see the cogs of Ian's brain turning as he drops this new possibility into the system.

"Maybe," Ian says, considering this, "I guess he could've known about it earlier, been sitting on it. Maybe the text just set him off?"

"Yeah," Lip encourages him, "Sure."

"Did you talk to him anytime after the other night?" Ian asks, looking up at Lip, "Like in person?"

Lip immediately begins to deny this possibility, but then he pauses, remembering.

"I did," he admits, surprised to recall this, "I ran into him at the Alibi. Before I went back to the house."

"When you were drunk?"

"Yeah."

"What'd you say to him?"

"I don't know," Lip replies honestly, "I don't remember."

The contempt is back on Ian's face just like that.

"You don't remember."

"No."

"Cause you were too drunk."

"Yeah. Sorry."

"Sorry?" Ian repeats with a cruel, mirthless smile, "You're sorry?"

"What do you want me to say? I'm sorry. I don't think I said anything about that, but I don't know. Maybe I did."

That smile will not go away, and it's terrifying.

"You're worse than Frank," Ian says quietly, "At least he never set out to ruin our lives. That was always just an accident. He didn't care enough to try and do that shit. But you can't stand not to. You're a goddamn prick."

"Hey," Lip argues, "I didn't do anything on purpose. I don't even know what I said."

"Yeah, 'cause you're the new fucking Frank. Bigger and badder than the old Frank. You're pathetic."

It's like Ian has just tossed a cinder block into Lip's gut. But Lip does his best to recover quickly and not show this. "I didn't—" Lip starts to argue, but Ian cuts him off.

"Right, like you haven't been trying to ruin everything I had with Mickey from the second you found out we were together."

"Listen—"

"Get the fuck out of here."

"Ian, come on. Don't be such a dick. I didn't—"

Ian bows his head and says in a low, pained voice, "You need to leave me alone now."

Lip hesitates, starts to speak again, but then stops. Ian is practically vibrating with rage. It's blood-chilling.

Slowly, as if backing away from a cobra, Lip eases himself off the bed and makes his way to the door. Before he leaves, however, he turns back. Ian is brooding with his cigarette, glaring straight ahead at the closet, back curved and shoulders hunched, hair a total mess. Lip will never understand how Ian can go from apple-cheeked all-American kid to looking like a psycho killer on the turn of a dime.

"Tell me one thing," Lip says, "And I promise I'll leave you alone."

Ian doesn't look at him but spits out, "What?"

"Who hit you?"

Now Ian does turn to face him and he's got that horrible smile on again as he says, "Carl."

"Come on. Who hit you?"

"Carl," Ian says again, turning his attention back to his cigarette, "Caught me off guard."

"What the hell's Carl hittin' you for?"

"Found out about the football team crap," Ian shrugs.

"Banner weekend, huh?"

"Just fuck off."

"Right."

Lip lets himself out of the room then stands in the dim hallway, finishing up his cigarette and thinking. This is certainly better than what he feared—Ian's up and around, conversing, reading a goddamn book—not a catatonic lump or a devastated suicidal mess. But it feels wrong. Somehow Lip is even more uneasy than he was on his way over here.

"Hey."

Lip glances up to see the Milkovich brother/cousin heading for the bathroom and acknowledging him politely. He's a wimpy little one, like Mickey without the muscles.

"What's up?" Lip replies, unable to recall the name of this particular Milkovich or whether Lip has ever even seen him before.

"Not much," the Milkovich replies. He steps into the bathroom, but Lip follows him and stands in the doorway.

"The fuck?" the Milkovich says, "I gotta take a leak."

"Mickey really take off?" Lip asks.

The Milkovich nods. "Never seen him so pissed."

Lip nods back. "How'd Ian take it? Last night?"

"Didn't react at all. But, you know…" the Milkovich says and turns a corkscrew motion with his finger at the side of his head.

The fury ignites inside Lip instantaneously but he swallows it and maintains his cool as he asks, "You think he's coming back? Mickey, I mean?"

"Nobody ever leaves this house for good."

Lip nods again and stubs out his cigarette on the edge of the sink. Then he grabs the Milkovich by the neck and bashes his head into the wall of the shower.

"Call my brother crazy again," Lip says as he plunges the guy's head into the tile a second time, "And I'll turn you into a vegetable."

The Milkovich nods dizzily as Lip throws him back toward the toilet.

As Lip turns to leave, he pauses to admire the fact that the tiles he and Ian put up have remained perfectly aligned and uncracked. Good craftsmanship. Superior teamwork.

He turns toward the still shell-shocked Milkovich and informs him, "I'm not fuckin' around."

Then Lip gets the hell out of there, unable to take another second of this house or the way it makes him feel. It's not until he's a block or two down the street that he can breathe properly again.

* * *

A solid half-inch of water cascades over Lip's boots as he steps through the back door of the Gallagher house.

"What the fuck?" he mutters, lifting his now-soaked feet one at a time in disgust and realizing he has nowhere else to put them but right back in the water.

"Debbie!" he shouts.

Getting no response, Lip slops his way to one of the kitchen chairs and climbs onto it.

"Carl!" he shouts, "Is anybody home?!"

As Lip unlaces one boot and yanks it off, nearly losing his balance on the chair, Carl pokes his head around the stairway.

"What're you doing here?" he snarls.

"The hell is goin' on?" Lip demands, setting his boot onto some fliers on the table and starting in on the other boot.

"Sink's leaking."

"This all came from the fuckin' sink?"

Carl shrugs. "Ian was supposed to come and fix it. Guess he lied."

Lip is speechless for a moment then he yanks off his second boot and once again nearly loses his balance. He catches himself, though, and places the boot beside the other one.

"When did it get this bad?" Lip asks, "This is more than just a leak."

"I don't know," Carl says, climbing down one more step but not coming any closer, "This morning?"

Lip sighs, surveying the damage from his perch. "Did you turn off the water?"

"Yeah, I turned off the faucet. I'm not an idiot."

"No. Not the faucet. The shut off."

Carl looks at him blankly.

Lip sighs again. Shit never fucking ends.

"All right," Lip gives in. He steps down off of the chair, his stocking feet immediately getting soaked. It's cold and awful, and he grits his teeth a little as he makes his way toward the sink. Grimacing, he squats down, pants getting soaked, and pulls open the cabinet doors. More water flows out, drenching the front of him.

"Goddammit," Lip mutters. He begins throwing all the under-sink crap behind him and to the sides: bottles of cleaner, grocery bags, empty yogurt containers, dishrags, plastic baby bottles and bottle brushes, half a box of garbage bags, and what seems like 8 million grimy used sponges.

Once he has a clear view into the dark cabinet, Lip locates the shut-off and turns it clockwise as far as it will go, but then it just keep turning, never fully catching.

"Shit."

"What's wrong?" Carl asks, still secure on the stairs.

"Gotta turn it off at the main."

"Where's that?"

"Basement."

Carl heads back upstairs and for a moment, Lip believes Carl's gone back to whatever it was he was doing before Lip arrived, but then Carl reappears, clomping down the steps in rubber snow boots.

He sloshes over to the basement door and then asks, "Where is it?"

Lip points to the water heater and says, "Right below there. Big pipe in the wall, got a green wheel. Turn it clockwise."

Carl looks confused until Lip clarifies, "To the right. Turn it all the way to the right until it won't go anymore. But be careful not to break it off. That thing's ancient."

Carl nods and disappears down to the basement.

While Carl is gone, Lip glances around the kitchen, feeling defeated. He shakes his head at the mess and makes his way to the top of the basement stairs.

He takes out a cigarette but pauses before lighting it. "You find it?" he calls down the stairs.

"Yeah!"

Lip lights up, thinking about how he always used to do this stuff with Ian. They weren't naturals at any of it, but they were a good team. It never seemed like as much work when it was the two of them. Alone, everything feels practically insurmountable.

"Bring up some buckets," Lip calls down.

"Okay!"

Carl comes back up a few minutes later carrying an armful of nasty-looking buckets.

"How does this shit still reek of meth?" Lip asks, taking them from Carl.

"I dunno."

"Well," Lip says as he sets the buckets on the counter, "Thanks. You can go back to doin' whatever you were doin', I guess."

Carl looks dismayed. "You don't want help?"

Lip is taken aback. "You wanna help?"

Carl makes a face. "Yeah."

"Okay," Lip replies quickly, eager to grab this opportunity before it passes, "How 'bout you start moppin' up while I work on the plumbing?"

"All right."

Lip does his best to hide his amazement as Carl gets the mop and sets to work. Lip also does his best not to ask the question that's been raring to jump off the end of his tongue this entire time: just how long was Carl planning to let the kitchen fill with water before he actually did something? Also: just how fucked up is this family?

Instead, Lip takes off his sweater and his shirt, stripping down to his tank top then peels off his socks and rolls up the cuffs of his damp pants until he is barelegged to the knees. Then he grabs a flashlight from the drawer, gets down on all fours and begins to inspect the plumbing under the sink.

The brothers work in steady silence for a while. Carl fills the bucket and empties it down the drain twice before Lip dares to return to the purpose of this trip and the conversation they need to have.

"Saw Ian a little while ago," Lip begins.

Carl says nothing, but his body language shifts to a sullen slouch as he continues to mop, reminding Lip for all the world of Ian. They've both always been so stubborn. Carl has never been able to give the silent treatment quite as well, but he seems to be getting better at it as he gets older. This realization exhausts Lip. He can't deal with two brothers sighing and giving him the chin.

When Carl still gives no sign of replying, Lip boils his intended message down to the main point and says, "Don't hit Ian."

"What, did he tell on me?" Carl sneers.

"No," Lip says, turning his socket wrench, "He had a black eye. I got it out of him."

"I gave him a black eye?  _Sweet_."

"It's not sweet," Lip says, sitting back on his knees and giving Carl a stern look, "Don't hit Ian."

"Why? Cause he's crazy?"

Lip bristles internally at this, but ducks his head back under the sink and replies, "No, 'cause he's a gentle fuckin' shithead, and you don't hit gentle fuckin' shitheads."

"He's a gentle fucking liar."

"Doesn't matter," Lip says, feeling for dampness along the back wall, "You don't hit Ian. He's off limits. Hit me instead if you need to."

Lip stands up to sort through the toolbox and he notices that Carl has stopped mopping. He's just standing there, clutching the handle and glaring at the floor.

"Ian's a liar," Carl growls, "He lies to everyone. He lies about everything."

Lip drags on his cigarette and refuses to take his eyes off Carl, causing his brother to squirm uncomfortably and begin mopping again.

"So, what?" Lip says, "Everybody lies."

"I don't."

"That's true," Lip concedes, unable to stop himself from smiling a little at the realization, "You're pretty honest. That's a good thing."

Carl doesn't exactly smile back at this, but Lip can tell that he's somewhat pacified. Carl's shoulders lift slightly, and it occurs to Lip that compliments are far too rare for his brother.

Then in a smaller, wistful voice, Carl says, slapping the mop back onto the floor, "I thought  _I_  made the team. I thought I was actually good at something."

And Lip finds himself annoyed with Ian all over again. This was exactly why the whole pull-strings-to-get-Carl-on-the-football-team plan was shitty from the start. Still, Lip pockets this irritation for later. The important thing right now is to broker peace.

"You know," Lip says, ashing thoughtfully into an abandoned pop can on the counter, "Ian might've given you a hand gettin' on the team. Doesn't mean it was him who  _kept_  you on."

Carl doesn't respond to this attempted ego rehabilitation, just continues to mop morosely. It's once again so reminiscent of Ian that Lip can hardly stand it.

"You know why he did it, right?" Lip asks, crouching back down to work, "He didn't do it just to fuck with you."

"I don't need his help."

"He wasn't trying to help you. He was trying to keep you the hell away from the ROTC."

Carl thrusts the mop into the bucket hard. "He didn't have any right to do that," he says, "Ian got to do it. Why can't I?"

Lip is quiet.

Carl stews on this for a moment then asks, "Did he think I'd suck at that too? Like I'd  _embarrass_  him?"

Lip takes a deep drag and closes his eyes as he exhales slowly. He's going to have to go there, and he really doesn't want to. Fuck.

Lip lays out a couple of different nuts that he's removed and then lays their corresponding washers down beside them. It's pointless busying, but he needs to do it. He can almost hear Carl waiting.

"All right," Lip says in a measured cadence, being careful for himself as much as for Carl, "You're old enough to hear this."

Carl pauses, mop in hand.

"When Ian enlisted," Lip says, "I think somethin' happened."

"Yeah. He went crazy. We know."

"No. I mean, like, somethin' else. Like…bad things happened," Lip says and winces at the fact that he's speaking to Carl as if he is a five-year-old and not thirteen. Lip can't seem to help it, though. How can he possibly explain something like this to Carl?

"You think somebody did something to him?" Carl asks, and Lip looks back at him in surprise.

"Yeah. I mean, I don't know. But I think maybe."

Lip can see Carl processing this information. The seriousness and concern evident in his face makes Lip want to rub Carl's head with affection, like he used to when they were younger. Carl would never stand for this now, though.

"Whatever happened," Lip continues, "I think there's a reason why he doesn't want you anywhere near the Army. Whether it's that or something else, I think Ian was just tryin' to protect you. I can't blame him too much for that."

"I don't need to be protected."

"You do. We all do."

Carl scowls at this, but Lip can tell he's working through something in his head.

"That why he's dancing?" Carl asks, "That why he doesn't care about people looking at him like that?"

Lip sits up in disbelief. "How do you know about that?"

"I followed him. I knew he was doing something behind Mickey's back."

Lip pauses, staring at his younger brother, Lip's brain sending out tendrils to several different ideas at once while Carl continues to mop. One part of Lip's brain is still stunned at how easily Carl understood what Lip was implying about Ian's time in boot camp, concerned about this, but also kind of proud and then impressed by the way Carl made a connection between that possibility and Ian's bewildering ease with which he offers himself up to be objectified and used. Another part of Lip's brain is troubled at the realization that Lip has very little idea what Carl's life is these days, Lip's anxieties about Ian reborn anew. Still another part of Lip's brain is desperately hoping that Carl only knows enough about Ian's nighttime activity to think that it begins and ends with dancing. Please let Carl have figured out no more than this. Let Carl live without ever knowing.

The last part of Lip's brain is hitting on the obvious missing piece of the morning's puzzle.

"You told Mickey about Ian working at the club, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Carl nods proudly, "He lied to me. I'm not gonna let him lie to Mickey too. Mickey doesn't deserve that."

Lip sits back and drags on his cigarette. He knew Carl's infatuation with Mickey was never going to lead anywhere good. Fucking hero-worshipping that jackass and look what happens.

"You know he walked out on Ian 'cause of that," Lip informs him.

Carl turns to him, alarmed. "Mickey left?"

Lip nods.

"Mickey wouldn't do that," Carl says, speaking as if he is confounded to find that the rules of gravity have upended over night, "He'd never leave Ian. He told me."

"Yeah, well, your little snitch move worked really great. Mickey split town. Took his kid with him too."

Carl has gone ghost white at this information, and part of Lip is uneasy to see how attached Carl has truly become to Mickey, if his leaving town has this effect on the kid.

But then Carl looks back up and asks with trepidation, "Is Ian okay?"

All Lip's irritation is replaced by sympathy. Carl's fear and regret at what he's done and concern for Ian makes Lip once again want to rough up Carl's hair, or hug him, or something, anything to reassure him.

Instead, Lip says, "He seemed all right. Up and around, anyway."

The comfort this information provides appears to be minimal. Carl still looks ill.

"Is he mad at me?"

"No," Lip says forcefully, "He's not mad at you. He's mad at himself. Just doesn't know it yet. In fact, at the moment, he's busy being mad at me."

"Why?"

"Thinks I'm the one who told Mickey."

A sly smile creeps back onto Carl's face.

"Hey," Lip says, smiling himself now, "Doesn't mean you're off the hook. You still did a real shit thing."

"He shouldn't have been lying."

"You shouldn't have been sneakin' around and snitchin'. Gallaghers don't snitch."

"They don't lie."

Lip cocks his head. "Really?"

Carl drops his bravado in concession. "We shouldn't lie to each other," he adds, though.

Lip smirks. "Fair enough."

Then Carl returns to his mop and asks Lip hesitantly, "Mickey's gonna come back, right?"

"Dunno. You know him better than I do."

Carl considers this and nods, growing more certain. "Mickey'll be back."

They settle into silence again as they work, Carl continuing to sop up the water, Lip finally figuring out what seems to be the problem with the plumbing. Once Lip knows what he needs to do, it's a swift repair, and he doesn't need to think much while going through the steps. He loves when his mind gets a break and his hands take over. It's the same feeling he gets when he's doing his pracitcals in the robotics lab.

Lip finishes up the repair just around the same time that Carl finishes mopping up the last of the standing water. The plumbing fix still needs to be tested with the water switched back on, but that can wait a few minutes; Lip knows it's going to work.

He takes two beers from the fridge and passes one to Carl. Leaning back against the counter, Lip cracks open his beer, takes a grateful guzzle, and then comments, "Quit the team, then, huh?"

Carl shifts his shoulders insouciantly, "Not gonna stay if they don't want me."

"They say they don't want ya?"

"They didn't have to."

Lip takes a few sips, thinking. Across from him, Carl sips and seems to be lost in thought too. He's getting taller, Lip notes, doesn't look like a little kid anymore. How did that happen so fast?

"You show up to all the practices?" Lip asks.

Carl nods.

"Games?" Lip asks, "All the extra stuff?"

Carl nods again.

"Then you're already more reliable than half the players, I can tell ya that."

"So what? I still never get off the bench."

"Not yet. You're at the bottom of the totem pole. Got plenty of time to move up."

"I won't."

"Keep workin' at it, you will."

Carl scrunches his nose up in disgust. "You don't know anything about sports."

"Ian does."

"So what?"

"Well, he thinks you're gonna make it off the bench. Told me."

Carl is quiet as he considers this. He sips his beer, seeming to be searching for more argument and not finding it. Even angry at Ian, Carl still respects him. More than he ever did his other older brother, Lip thinks wryly.

"Quittin' is a pussy move," Lip says. Then he finds himself smiling and remarks, "Like somethin' I would do."

Carl smiles at this behind his beer can, the debate over for now.

"Come on," Lip says, inclining his head toward the sink, "I'll show you what I did so next time you can take care of it."

Looking skeptical of this possibility, Carl does agree to being shown. The two of them crouch down with their heads under the sink, Lip pointing out what was amiss and how he fixed it while Carl holds the flashlight.

"That's it?" Carl asks, "That's all you have to do?"

"That's all you have to do."

"So, will that take care of the water in the basement too?"

Lip sits back, narrowly avoiding hitting his head on the frame of the cabinet. "There's water in the basement?"

"Yeah. Like, half a foot."

Lip closes his eyes, seeing all hopes of working on his paper today dissolving into nothingness. The water in the basement might as well be rising to cover his knees then his neck then his nose, then submerging him entirely.

"Lip?"

"All right," Lip says, forcing himself to sound capable, "Let's get to work on the basement."

* * *

It's late into the night when Lip finally leaves the house. It took the entire afternoon and evening to get the leak fixed, clear out the water and separate all the sopping wet crap from down there into "salvageable" and "unsalvageable" piles. Everyone who came by the house was recruited for the clean-up—Kev, Debbie and Joaquin, Fiona and some douchebag with a tongue ring that she's apparently now dating. The whole thing sort of turned into a party, everyone making jokes, throwing shit around, V showing up at some point with the babies and dinner. It was nice to have the family back, working on something together, even if there was a conspicuous absence everybody was careful not to mention.

Maybe that's why now Lip finds himself wandering over to Zemansky even though he'd told Fiona he couldn't stay over, that he had to get back to the dorms, had to at least try and get an early start on his paper and all the rest of his work tomorrow. It's almost three a.m. and it's ten degrees out, but Lip needs to see Ian.

When Lip turns onto the block where the Milkovich house sits, he sees a familiar form loping up the sidewalk from the opposite direction.

"Checking up on me again?" Ian asks cheerfully as he and Lip meet in front of the house.

"Where you comin' from?" Lip asks, following Ian up the steps and shivering in the cold as Ian gets the door.

"Work."

"Right."

Lip continues to follow Ian into the house. Ian doesn't seemed bothered by this tail as he hits the lights, tosses off his coat and hat, and gets himself a glass of water. Lip watches Ian gulp down the water, refill the glass and gulp that down too.

"I was by the house today," Lip says, "Whole kitchen and basement flooded."

"Oh, yeah?" Ian laughs, setting the glass on the counter and moving right past Lip and down the hall.

"Yeah," Lip says, confused, as he follows Ian into the bedroom, "Good thing I was there."

Ian pauses in removing his shirt and clasps Lip by the shoulder.

"Lip to the rescue," Ian says, grinning, "You live for that shit."

Lip is staring at Ian. First it's the smile that unnerves Lip, then it's the badly applied make-up on Ian's black eye ( _Mandy Mandy Mandy_ ), then it's Ian's pupils that really cause Lip's stomach to drop.

"You doin' coke?" Lip asks, already knowing the answer but unwilling to believe it.

Ian laughs and pats Lip on the cheek before resuming his undressing. "The fuck does it matter?" Ian says.

"You can't do that shit while you're on your meds—it's dangerous."

"You're worse than Mickey," Ian laughs, throwing his shirt onto the floor and undoing his belt.

"You could fuckin' die, Ian."

"Fuck does it matter?" This time Ian doesn't laugh. This time Lip gets a glimpse of that chilling darkness he witnessed this morning.

"Ian…"

"Just leave me the hell alone."

Ian steps past him and stomps into the bathroom, slamming the door in Lip's face. Lip can hear him slide down the door, slumping onto the floor with his back against it.

Lip squats down, presses his hand against where he imagines Ian's head to be.

"Ian…"

"Get out of my house!"

Lip keeps his hand pressed there on the door, finds himself holding back tears. Then he slaps the door three times rapidly, hitting so hard that his hand is throbbing by the third slap.

"Go fuck yourself," Lip screams.

Lip rests his face against the door, one dry sob escaping.

"Just go fuck yourself," he whimpers.

Lip sits hard on the floor. He can hear himself breathing, hear Ian breathing, and he can't take anymore. He crawls like a wounded animal, only making it to his feet by the time he reaches the living room.

Without a backward glance, he walks out.

* * *

The whiskey comes out immediately. Lip clutches it like a life preserver as he sits on top of his bed in the dark and makes himself as small as possible, his folded arms and knees forming a bulwark around his vulnerable parts.

As his eyes adjust to the dark, he looks up at the schedule taped to the wall, the more distinguishable parts of it gradually becoming visible. The last time he had Liam here, Amanda had traced his hand onto some paper and helped him color it and cut it out, making a "turkey." Then she'd taped it onto the Thanksgiving holiday spot on Lip's wall schedule.

Lip stares at the shape now, the "feathers" starting to curl away from the wall as the tape dries up. Thanksgiving is coming and Lip cannot imagine a more grim thought right now. What in god's name do they have to be thankful for this year? That Liam almost died? That Ian's lost his mind? That Fiona's a felon and still doesn't have the slightest bit of a handle on the kids? That Carl and Debbie both seem to be barreling toward disaster, and there's no one around to stop them? That Lip is blowing it and surely going to lose his scholarship if not get kicked out entirely?

He sinks lower into himself, takes a swig, and wills his mind to go blank. It doesn't happen, though. Instead, like a joke, it trips back to another Thanksgiving, the one he never wants to think about. His brain is cruel.

Thanksgiving night itself was something he barely remembered, even the next morning. He remembered the anger, the outrage that overpowered everything in his brain, moving his body for him so that when he finally became aware again he was blocks from the hospital, standing around on the sidewalk in too-light street clothes, seeing his breath, confused for a moment, then angry all over again. He remembered the baby that was and then wasn't. He remembered his family there, being so happy to have them beside him then wanting nothing more than for them all to disappear. Instead, Lip was the one who left.

But he came back. Mad as he was at Karen, he kept thinking of her alone in the hospital or, worse, stuck with Sheila or goddamn Jody yammering at her. Lip was supposed to be with her; that was his place. They could be mad together. They could feel cheated and depressed together. It wouldn't be half so bad if they were a team again, partners in crime like they used to be—she'd see that too. Karen was smart like that.

He remembered how she looked so small and pretty sleeping there, like some exhausted fairy tale princess, relaxed at last with the pea removed from beneath her stack of perfect feather mattresses. It had made Lip feel better, seeing her at peace, being close to her again. He fell asleep in the chair beside her hospital bed, comforted by the certainty that, all the shit aside, at least it was done. They'd start over and everything could be good again. Lip would do it better this time. He'd say all the right things.

But it didn't work out that way. Karen didn't wake up the person she was before all this happened; she woke up exactly the same, smiling with renewed contempt for him.

So when she told him to leave, he did. Everybody had been kicking him out for weeks anyway. Fiona then Karen then Jimmy then Mandy, now Karen again. Lip was getting to be a pro at not being wanted. And at chasing after stupid things that didn't even exist.

But Mandy had let him back in that morning. She listened as he unloaded about Karen, and Mandy shot her down too, which didn't make Lip feel better like he'd hoped it would. Then Mandy invited him to fuck and that, at least, was a welcome distraction.

He barely knew Mandy then but already had an inkling she was kinda nuts like all the rest of the Milkoviches. Still, she offered him a warm bed and a warm touch, and he wasn't in any position to turn that down. He almost felt better for a while as they lay in her bed afterwards, Mandy going on about some girls at school she hated, Lip tracing her skinny hip and leg, barely listening. He tried to shove Karen out of his brain, and replace her with Mandy. Someone like Mandy, babbling on about skanks at school and her empty threats to 'show them' would be so much less complicated, he thought. Mandy was sweet. She'd probably never hate him simply for existing.

"You want lunch?" She asked, interrupting her own story, a habit of hers he found sort of charming.

"Sure."

He smiled as she rolled off the bed, pulled on her panties and a top but didn't bother with anything else. She'd assured him no one else would be home for most of the day, and it was amusing to him how much delight she was taking in playing house, pretending it was all hers, pretending Lip was her boyfriend. Later it would be suffocating, but for the moment it was endearing. And intoxicating—Lip needed to feel wanted by somebody right now.

He lolled lazily on Mandy's bed while she went into the kitchen. He lit another cigarette and considered suggesting a post-lunch nap. As he was contemplating this, he heard someone talking to Mandy in the kitchen.

Lip sat up apprehensively, reaching for his clothes, ready to bolt. But the tone of the voices sounded…friendly? The little time Lip had spent in this house, he'd never really heard anyone speak to each other in any way that could be described as friendly.

His curiosity won out over his trepidation. He dressed quickly and tiptoed out and down the hall. He arrived at the kitchen just in time to see Ian pinch Mandy's butt.

"Hey!" She said, spinning around and threatening him the spatula, "I will  _burn_  you with hot grease."

Ian hopped back out of reach, grinning, and swiped a slice of cheese off the counter. "Can't a guy enjoy his girlfriend's ass?"

"Yeah, you like asses, don't you?"

"I love 'em."

Mandy snorted at that, returning her attention to the stove. Ian giggled and unwrapped the cheese slice, tearing off half of it in one bite. Lip watched the both of them in bemusement. He'd never seen Mandy quite so relaxed, and this playful, silly side of Ian was increasingly rare. Lip held back on letting them know he was there, intrigued at viewing brother and beard in their natural habitat.

"You hungry?" Mandy asked Ian, and he grunted in confirmation, folding the rest of the cheese slice into his mouth.

"Thought you guys were having the big turkey dinner last night. Like you're the Cosbys, or something, right?"

"Got messed up," Ian said simply with a little shrug.

Lip could tell immediately that this was Ian's pretending-things-are-no-big-deal-when-they-are-actually-a-very-big-deal shrug. Apparently, Mandy could too because she glanced at him, and her voice dropped the sarcasm.

"What happened?"

Ian shrugged again and took a seat at the table.

"Don't wanna talk about it?" Mandy asked.

"Not really."

"Okay." Mandy scooped the sandwich from the pan onto a plate and brought it over to him.

She hesitated a second, then kissed Ian's cheek, which made him smile. But he spotted Lip, and the smile dropped off his face.

Mandy turned to see Lip, far more pleased at his presence than Ian was. "I'm making yours next," she said, returning to the stove like a happy housewife.

Lip took the seat across from Ian, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Nice hickey," Lip remarked, but Ian ignored him. So Lip tried again. "You here to try and get me to come back home?"

"No," Ian said, "Came to see Mandy."

"Right."

"Fiona's looking for you," Ian informed him.

"You tell her I was here?"

"Nope."

Ian ate a bit of his sandwich and then asked with his mouth full, "You go back to Karen yet?"

"No," Lip lied.

Ian smiled around his sandwich. "After all that shit last night? Kid's not even yours—you go back? You're fucking crazy."

Lip glared at Ian all his tempered rage bubbling up inside him anew.

"What happened to dinner?" Lip asked, knowing exactly how to hit back, "Fiona fuck up Thanksgiving too?"

Ian eyed him warily. He set down the sandwich and said, "Monica tried to off herself."

"Shit!" Mandy exclaimed.

But Lip scoffed, secure once again in his decision not to come home. Another shitshow avoided. "Pills again?" he asked.

Ian's eyes were focused on his plate as he shook his head.

"Cut her wrists open," Ian said, his voice sounding distant, caught up in the memory of the scene, "Bled out on the kitchen floor."

"Shit," Mandy said again.

Lip was almost glad to have Mandy's pointless interjections because he couldn't seem to find any words himself. Monica had threated suicide countless times over the years, 'attempted' it at least a dozen, but it was always something which seemed purposely ineffectual: pills, half-assed attempts at hanging or walking into traffic, trying to drown herself in the swimming pool but still bobbing up for air after making Debbie panic…

"The kids see it?" Lip asked, his surprise coalescing into anger.

"We all saw it."

Lip could see Ian's eyes going a little Bambi, frightened at the memory. He wasn't eating his sandwich anymore.

"That's why you guys were at the hospital last night," Lip said, realizing now how absurd it was that, in his excitement in the delivery room, Lip had believed they were all at the hospital for  _him_. Of course they weren't there for him. Lip's life was always trumped by Gallagher family drama.

"You okay, Ian?" Mandy asked, watching him cautiously from her station in front of the frying pan.

"Ah, yeah," Ian smiled, brushing off her concern, "I'm fine."

"Why didn't anybody tell me last night?" Lip asked

"Jimmy said he called you."

"He didn't say anything about that. Why didn't you guys say anything?"

Ian shrugged, "Wasn't really a good time to bring it up."

They sat there quietly for a bit, just the sound of the grilled cheese sizzling, grease popping, Mandy scraping it occasionally to keep it from sticking to the pan where the Teflon had all long ago worn off. Lip watched Ian's skinny fingers fidgeting with his plate and the remainder of his sandwich. The anger that had been simmering in Lip's belly since the delivery room was threatening to boil over again. Karen, Monica…the destruction they wreaked so blithely was infuriating. Just the thought of Debbie and Carl seeing that, adding this to their list of childhood traumas…

Lip was so caught up in his seething that he startled when Mandy set a plate down in front of him, blackened sandwich steaming.

"Um, I'm gonna go take a piss," she announced, and it was clear she was trying to give them some privacy.

After she left, they continued to sit in silence, but Lip got the sense that Ian was gathering up the nerve to say something he knew Lip wasn't going to like.

"I wanna go see her," Ian blurted out.

"She'll be home soon enough," Lip replied, "Probably shove her out by tonight."

"No," Ian shook his head, "Fiona called this morning. She signed up for voluntary commitment."

Lip did his best to tamp down his surprise at this information. He was afraid it might germinate into optimism if he acknowledged it. "For how long?" he asked.

"Sixty days."

"That's nothing," Lip said, hoping to discourage Ian as well. There was something bearing a remarkable resemblance to hope in his eyes.

"It's something."

"It's not gonna last, Ian. Sure, maybe we'll get a couple of months. But then what? You know she's just gonna find some excuse to stop takin' her meds or fuck up in some other dumb-ass way. Don't be stupid about this."

Ian was quiet, working over the thoughts in his head. Across from him, Lip ate his sandwich with as much bravado as he could muster. He needed to keep Ian from thinking anything was possible here. Lip didn't want to see him heartbroken again, the way he always was when Monica waltzed back out of their lives. It was safer if Ian could finally just let go of this misguided belief that Monica would ever even come close to being better.

"I wanna go see her," Ian said again, looking Lip clear in the eyes, "I don't want her to be all alone there."

"Why? She never gave a fuck about bein' there for any of us."

Ian frowned and cast his eyes back down at the table. He pressed his finger onto some stray breadcrumbs and then brushed them off his finger onto his plate.

"Will you come with me if I go?" he asked.

"No," Lip replied automatically. The thought of going back to the hospital made Lip's stomach turn. And he sure as fuck wasn't about to do it for Monica's sake.

"Please?"

Lip slapped the remaining half of his sandwich down in frustration. Those stupid Bambi eyes were in full force. Every time they made an appearance it was like Ian was just asking for the world to crush him.

"Don't do this," Lip said.

"What?"

"Don't start thinkin' she's gonna magically turn into a half-way decent human being. Stop foolin' yourself. Don't be an idiot and keep goin' back to her. People don't change."

Slowly, the Bambi eyes narrowed in anger.

"Come on," Lip muttered, irritated that his logic was causing Ian to turn against him.

Ian stood up, shrugging his coat over his shoulders with a calculated air of coldness.

"Don't come home," Ian said, "Really. We're fine without you."

That hurt more than Lip would have anticipated.

"Yeah, sounds like it," Lip sneered, "Sounds like Fiona's got it all under control."

That got Ian's goat, Lip was pleased to see, though he wasn't pleased at all by the viciousness of Ian's glare.

"Don't blame Fiona. It's not her fault."

"I'm not just blamin' Fiona. The fuck were you when Monica got the Squirrel Fund? Almost killed Carl? Nice work, there. Real man of the house."

Ian zipped up his coat with a bitter smile and said, "You know, it pissed me off watching Karen play you like that, but maybe you don't deserve anything better than that."

Normally, Lip would have had a sharp reply right back, but maybe he was just too wrung out from everything that had happened. He couldn't come up with anything as Ian walked out, leaving Lip alone with the shitty fucking mess he'd made of his life. Lip stared at the filthy counters of that disgusting kitchen and felt everything caving in at last.

"Everything okay?" Mandy asked brightly when she returned and started setting up the pan to make her own sandwich.

"Fuckin' phenomenal," Lip replied.

"You sad about your mom?" Mandy asked.

"No," Lip answered quickly, "She doesn't deserve it."

"Then what're you upset about?"

Lip was annoyed at being called  _upset,_  but he still answered, "I'm upset about the fact that I ruined my whole fuckin' life for Karen's bullshit."

Mandy didn't respond to this at first, just grilled her cheese in easy silence, and Lip stewed in his own head. But then she did speak.

"Well, don't you have it all back now?"

Lip looked at her, puzzled.

"Your life," she explained, bowing her head like she thought he was gonna yell at her for talking, "If it's not your baby, you're off the hook. What'd you lose?"

"It's not that easy," he told her, "Haven't even been to school the whole term."

"So?" Mandy slid her grilled cheese onto a plate and killed the gas, "Lexie Schroeder got to stay home for three months when she had mono. They didn't even hold her back."

They were interrupted then by the arrival of Fiona, begging Lip to come home, to go back to school. Lip took out all his anger on her, glad to have someone to target at last. She could stand in for Karen and Ian and Lip himself just fine. Fiona was a terrific puppy to kick; she always had been.

Lip was at his most defensive and childish. He even quoted Robert Fucking Frost, internally rolling his eyes at himself as he did it. He knew he was being an idiot. He couldn't stop, though. It was easy to drift into feeling sorry for himself and mad at everybody else in that bleak, depressing house. He swore the Milkoviches were pumping some sort of vapor of despair through the radiators.

But what Mandy had said stuck in his head.  _You have it all back now_. It didn't matter that Fiona had been arguing this possibility for months, Ian too. When it was some plain as day fact that even Mandy Milkovich could see, it had a lot more weight. He went back to school the next day with no fanfare and took his finals. It was easy as that.

After he turned in his last exam he strutted the school corridors in search of his brother. He peeked at all the classrooms as he passed them, all those kids with their Scantron sheets, all of them who always took so much longer on tests than Lip.

He spotted Ian finally, head bent over his geometry final, chewing his pencil as he struggled. Lip watched him through the reinforced glass window of the classroom door and felt all resentment and frustration dissipating. Everything was going back to the way it was. Affection and excitement welled up inside of him. He and Ian would make up too. He'd get his brother back. He'd get his girlfriend back. Everything would be all right again.

When the students poured out of the room, Ian didn't even seem startled to see Lip.

"Couldn't stay away from this place, huh?" Ian asked, offering Lip a conciliatory smile.

"Nah," Lip said, "Had to show 'em how it's done."

"This mean you're coming back home?"

"Dunno."

"Right," Ian raised his eyebrows in amusement that Lip was refusing to admit what they both knew, "Walk back to the house with me?"

"Nah. I gotta…I gotta see about somethin'," Lip said.

"Jesus, glutton for punishment, or what?"

Lip didn't answer that. Maybe he was a glutton for punishment, but how could he stay away from her? She drew him back, again and again, against all better judgment. Like cigarettes, he knew logically she'd turn his insides black and diseased, but he couldn't just drop his fix. She made him feel alive like no one else ever had. He simply liked being in her orbit, liked watching her do just about anything even when he didn't understand her. He sometimes spent hours at night lying awake and thinking about her, trying to puzzle out the most fascinating mystery he'd ever encountered. Lip couldn't explain it, but Ian wouldn't have understood anyway. Ian didn't know shit about love.

"Go with you tonight if you want," Lip offered, "See Monica."

"Too late. Frank organized a jailbreak. She's gone."

"Didn't see that comin'."

"Mmm."

Lip tried to rest a comforting arm on Ian's shoulder, but his brother shook him off.

Ian put on a smile, though, as he darted away from Lip and toward a different hallway. He shoved his hands in his pockets and called back, "Have fun licking Karen's toilet bowl clean."

Later, as Karen walked away like nothing mattered, not their neighborhood, not Lip, not what the two of them had and all they'd been through, Lip decided that maybe Ian was right. Maybe love was licking someone's toilet bowl and begging them to let you do it again. What the fuck was the point of it? He vowed never to put himself in that position again, never to feel anything like that because it wasn't worth it; it was just misery and confusion and pain. He'd never let himself be that vulnerable again, never let another person abandon him whom he didn't abandon first.

* * *

"God, did you go to sleep drunk  _again_?"

Lip blinks into the bright morning sunlight that Amanda has just thrown into the room with one good jerk on the window shade. For a moment he thought she was Karen, and there's some strange mix of fading gladness and relief as he realizes she is not.

His brain feels wrapped in carpet as he struggles to sit up and find his cigarettes.

"Your paper for Steigler's class is due in exactly nineteen hours. And you have to work for seven of those this afternoon. And now you're hungover too. You're making my job so hard here."

Lip rubs his face and opens his eyes a little wider. "Not your job to make sure I get everything turned in," he tells her.

"If I don't do it, who else will? If you end up dropping out of Poly, I don't see how this can continue to work."

He lights his cigarette and then comments, "Lotta work just to have easy access to your fuck buddy."

Lip catches something in Amanda's expression after he says this, some bit of hurt. She is quiet for a moment then she recovers her usual cool and says, "Wanna come with me to Florida for Thanksgiving?"

Shit. Lip buys time by running his hands through his hair and rubbing his eyes sleepily again, apprehensive at the prospect of this proposed trip but also at the implication of her invitation.

"I…I can't," he stumbles coming up with an excuse, "There's too much goin' on right now. I couldn't leave my family."

"That's bull. They'd be fine if you went away for a few days."

"Nah, they wouldn't. Just, things are really bad right now, okay? Maybe next time."

Amanda makes a guttural noise of frustration as she begins getting breakfast for him from the mini-fridge. "You're obsessed with being needed," she remarks.

Lip snorts. "I'm not obsessed. I  _am_  needed."

"You think that's the only way to be loved," Amanda declares as she pokes the straw into the little carton of orange juice, "That's why your brother pisses you off so much. You're jealous."

"What?" Lip sits up fully now, amused at the ridiculousness of this accusation, "I'm not jealous. I wouldn't want his life. I don't even want  _him_  to have his life."

Amanda sets the orange juice beside Lip on the nightstand and starts unwrapping a frozen breakfast sandwich as she explains matter-of-factly, "You're not jealous of his life. You're jealous that everybody likes him better than you; he doesn't have to do anything to be loved—people just naturally like him. That kills you. It's never worked that way for you, has it?"

This is too much. Lip can't even find words to express how absurd this idea is. He sucks on his cigarette and waits for Amanda to realize this. Instead she continues on with her nonsense.

"Believe me, I get it," she says, "I know what buying love looks like. That's all my family does."

"Who the fuck am I buying love from?"

"Well, you're bartering, anyway," she says. She pauses a moment to wrap the frozen sandwich in a paper towel, plunk it in the microwave and set the timer.

Then she continues, "You're the guy they call in a crisis. You're the one who fixes everything, keeps their ship afloat. The way you figure, they've got no choice but to love you if they need you that much. How else are you gonna get them to love you?"

Lip shakes his head, appalled. "I'm not manipulating them," he argues.

"No," she agrees, "But that's the only way you feel important. They'd totally survive without you. You don't have to be on call 24/7 to fix everything all the time."

"Of course I do. You have no idea how bad they fuck everything up when I'm not around. Shit, just yesterday—"

Amanda cuts off his story about the water leak before it can even begin. "I'm just saying," she says, "If you wanted to put your needs before theirs once in a while, it would be okay."

Lip scoffs, "I'm not some big martyr."

But Amanda scoffs right back. "Oh, really? You and your brother are the two biggest martyrs I've ever met. Well, second only to my mother, I guess."

Lip sulks with his cigarette for a bit, realizing that nothing he says right now is going to make him sound like he's not a defensive martyr. Irritatingly, Amanda appears wholly unruffled by this argument, organizing his books and notes needed for the day.

Then she gets down on knees in front of him and switches to a less accusatory voice.

"Maybe you should do something that makes you happy once in while," she says, rubbing his legs, "not just something that's good for everybody else."

"I'd be down with doin' somethin' that makes me happy right now," Lip replies, glad to see they've switched gears, "Didn't realize that's what you were angling for."

She sighs and sits back from him. "Something that isn't sex."

He smiles. "What else is there?"

Amanda seems frustrated with him again. "I don't know," she says, "Something that actually stimulates your mind instead of numbing it. Go to a museum. Do a research assistantship. Travel."

Lip snickers at the idea of all of this. "Travel? I think I got about three bucks left on my CTA card. That could get me to…Evanston? Or Cottage Grove? Oh, oh—maybe I can hitchhike to Gary. Or, fuck, Peoria. That'd be enlightening."

She peers over her glasses, unamused. "I just invited you to Florida."

"Yeah, to have dinner with your fuckin' parents. How's that somethin' for me?"

Amanda shrugs. "Let's go to Paris for Christmas break, then. Just you and me. Or Tokyo. You'd love Tokyo. Robots everywhere."

For one brief second, Lip imagines this. For one brief second it feels possible and his heart beats a little faster. But then he recognizes the danger of this hope and shuts it down.

"I can't just go jaunting off like you can," he says, aiming to hurt her just a bit in punishment for teasing him with things he cannot have, "I have people who need me."

The microwave beeps and Amanda attends to the sandwich, flipping it over and setting the timer once more.

"You're so worried about what everyone else needs," she says, "What about what you need?"

"I'm good."

"Right. Okay. How about what I need, then?"

Lip sighs. Of course this has all been about her. "Amanda…"

"No," she says, shutting down his patronizing tone, "Do you even care about what I need? You care about everybody else plenty."

He refrains from rolling his eyes but can't keep the condescension out of his voice. "What could you possibly need?" he says, "Your life's fine."

Amanda stands up, finally ruffled at last. "Do you even listen to me at all when I talk to you?"

"For Christ's sake. You're sitting here talkin' about flyin' to Paris just because you feel like it. Sounds like a pretty good life to me."

"I wasn't talking about going to Paris just because I feel like it. I was talking about taking you to Paris because I think you'd really like it, and I'd like to spend some time with you once in a while when you aren't just worried about everything that's going on back home. I'm trying to do something good for you."

"Yeah, don't bother."

She crosses her arms and smiles at him without any humor, "Like how your family doesn't bother? They ever think about you when they're not just looking for a fixer for the latest crisis?"

Lip ashes his cigarette, feeling tired with this fight now. "They've got problems," he says, "I don't."

"Yeah, you don't have any problems at all. Got it all under control. Lip Gallagher doesn't need help from anyone."

He shrugs. "I don't."

"Okay." Amanda unlocks the door to leave, "Good luck writing your paper for tomorrow."

"Whatever."

She opens the door, but pauses and turns back to him. "Listen," she says, "I know everybody's told you your whole life how smart you are, but you're really an idiot sometimes."

There's something wobbly in her voice, some tiny vibration Lip just barely detects, but he has no time to decipher it before she is gone and the microwave is beeping for attention.

* * *

Lip makes it through a busy afternoon shift in the cafeteria, grateful for once for the distraction. He can't handle everybody else's bullshit anymore today, but he can deal with a never-ending stream of dishes that need to be washed and trays of lasagna that need to be replenished. Things that are easily fixed feel quite pleasing right now.

All this easy problem-solving has him energized as he gets off work and sits down to concentrate on his paper at last. The idea that it will be done just a few hours from now is motivating. It's been hanging over his head for so long, and he just wants to churn it out, toss it off, and never have to think about it again.

It takes longer than he expected, though. Stress starts mounting in the back of his shoulders as hours slip by and the paper inches along, requiring so much more additional work than he'd anticipated. He is constantly stopping to look things up, getting dragged down rabbit holes of side ideas, and second-guessing everything he thought he knew about the topic, a voice in his head providing counterargument to every point he lays out.

It's almost one in the morning when Lip leaps out of his skin at the sound of someone knocking on his door.

From the pounding, Lip assumes it's going to be Kuz coming back for something, having forgotten his keys. Of course he's forgotten his keys; he's all busy being caught up in his new girlfriend, whatever her name is. Irritated at being disturbed from his desperate push on the paper—every minute literally counts at this point—Lip swings open the door.

He's surprised to find Ian.

Ian appears equally surprised that Lip has actually opened the door. They both stare at each other a moment. Ian looks weird: this is Lip's first thought. It takes a second before he realizes that this is because Ian's wearing eyeliner. His hair's also a mess, and it's strange to see it sticking up like this when usually it's so perfectly maintained. Lip is about to comment on this as a way to break the odd tension of their staring match over the threshold, but then he notices what Ian's wearing. He's got no hat, no gloves and, from the looks of it, no shirt on underneath his coat which isn't even zipped. Lip checks immediately for boots and finds only some flimsy-looking tennis shoes. The shoes and the bottom of Ian's jeans, almost the length of his shins, are soaked from the snow and slush.

After noting all of these troubling details, Lip looks back up at Ian's face. Ian is either very high, very terrified, or both. His eyes are enormous, and he is panting.

"Get in here," Lip says and pulls his brother into the room.

Inside, Lip sits Ian on the bed and then stands there, awaiting an explanation. But Ian is lost. There aren't going to be any explanations right now.

"Take your shoes off," Lip commands.

Ian doesn't even glance down at his shoes. He's just staring sightlessly at the bedspread.

With a sigh, Lip gets down and removes Ian's soaked shoes himself. Ian has no socks on, and his feet feel like frozen chicken filets.

"Shit," Lip mutters. He starts rubbing Ian's feet roughly, and that gets Ian to acknowledge him finally.

"I can't feel that," Ian says in a sleepy, confused voice.

Lip takes Ian's hands and put them on his feet.

"Keep doing that," Lip instructs. Then he fetches some socks, unrolls them, and tosses them in the little microwave that sits on top of the mini fridge. While they wait the minute for the socks to warm up, Lip takes back over on roughing up Ian's feet because he's doing a piss-poor job of it, moving so clumsily. It's probably because Ian's hands are numb too, Lip realizes.

"You just come from the club?" Lip asks, rolling up the damp denim pant legs in an attempt to keep them away from Ian's feet.

Ian doesn't answer. He doesn't really need to, though.

"You need to get these off," Lip says, shoving one of the folded pant legs up out of his way again.

When Ian doesn't move to do anything, Lip hauls him back onto his feet, takes his coat off for him and tosses it on the desk. The microwave beeps.

"Take your jeans off," Lip says as he goes to retrieve the warmed socks, "I'll give you something dry to wear."

It takes Ian a few tries to un-do his pants, but Lip forces himself not to help. It seems like Ian needs something rote to do right now, something to get his brain working again.

When Ian does get his pants off, he reveals the fact that he's wearing metallic booty shorts. Lip is unnerved at the sight and everything he associates with it.

"Sorry," Ian apologizes as Lip comes back over to him with the socks.

"Gotta get me some shorts like that," Lip remarks as he kneels down and puts the socks on Ian's feet, "Think I could pull that look off?"

He's hoping this might lighten the mood, but Ian doesn't respond. So Lip busies himself getting some clothes. There isn't much that will fit, but he comes up with some boxers, a t-shirt, and a pair of Ralph Lauren pajama pants Amanda bought him that he's pretty certain he's never worn. As he gathers these items up, Lip thinks about how twenty-four hours ago, Ian was screaming at him to get out of his house, and Lip was telling Ian to go fuck himself. They don't need to apologize to forget this and move on, though. They are brothers.

Lip averts his eyes while Ian dresses. He's moving like a zombie, but at least he's moving and seems to be getting more aware of the world around him now.

After Ian has gotten the clothes on, he remains standing, that same lost look on his face.

"Here," Lip says, sitting Ian back down on the bed. Lip takes out his flask and pushes it at his brother.

"No," Ian starts to protest, but Lip puts it into his hands.

"Drink. You gotta warm up."

Lip takes a seat on the floor, looking up at Ian on the bed. He still seems rattled, but less confused and agitated than he did when he arrived.

Ian holds the flask with two hands and takes a tentative first sip and a longer second sip. He lowers the flask then and says, "I'm sorry. I didn't know where else to go."

"Hey, it's cool," Lip says and moves to sit beside Ian on the bed because, on second glance, Ian looks like he's about to pass out.

Lip puts his arm over Ian's shoulder and asks, "You all right? You sick?"

Ian takes Lip's hand and lays it, palm down, over his chest. Lip can feel Ian's heart pounding double, triple time.

"I can't make it stop," Ian says.

Lip taps the flask with a knuckle. "Drink more. That'll help."

Ian does as he is told and when he's had a few good sips, Lip asks him, "What happened?"

"I just…I saw her, and I couldn't…I had to get out of there."

"Who?"

Ian takes another sip of whiskey before he answers, "Monica."

Now Lip feels ill himself. And angry. "Shit," he mutters.

He reaches for his cigarettes, puts two in his mouth and lights one for each of them. Ian accepts his gratefully with a trembling hand.

"You saw her at the club?" Lip asks.

Ian nods.

"What the hell's she doin' at a gay club?"

"She goes to them all the time," Ian explains, "She's the one who got me the job at the White Swallow, knows one of the floor managers there."

Lip takes in this bit of information, files it away to think about later, and asks, "So, you seen her there before?"

"Not in a while. Not since she split last year when we…when we were hanging out together."

Ian shakes his head like he's trying to shake off the memory and adds, "I thought she was gone. I thought I'd never…I didn't like seeing her."

"Yeah," Lip commiserates, "I bet."

"I saw her tonight," Ian says, rubbing his thumb across the mouth of the flask, eyes locked on the movement, "And I realized…that's how you all see me. That's what I look like. That's what I am."

Lip forces Ian to look at him as he says, "You're nothin' like that. You're nothin' like her."

"I am," Ian argues, his voice picking up pace and growing faster and more breathy with every statement, "I'm gonna fuck everything up. I'm already doing it. I'm already fucking up. Lip, I've fucked up everything so bad."

"Ian, Ian, Ian," Lip says, putting his hand back on his chest, trying to calm him down, "Everything's okay. You're fine."

"No."

"Yes."

"No. It's already happening." Ian wipes his eye with the butt of his palm and says in a tiny voice, sounding like a child, "Mickey's so mad at me."

"Fuck Mickey," Lip says before he can stop himself.

Ian pays no attention to him, though. Ian's drifted off into his head again.

"She's worse than she was," he says quietly.

"Well, she's not gettin' help," Lip says, "That's what happens."

"He said he can't trust me."

"Who?"

"He's right. He can't. Can't trust her. Can't trust me. Just crazy idiot fuck-ups."

Lip sighs, exasperated. "He can't trust you because you kept shit from him. But you've always done that. If Mickey doesn't know that about you by now, he's a bigger moron than I thought."

Ian still doesn't appear to be listening, still seems to be performing some weird soliloquy to himself as he continues, "I was supposed to fix that leak at the house. Promised Fiona I would. Look what happened. Unreliable, just like Monica."

"You forgot, okay? Your boyfriend walked out on you, and you forgot. Who can fuckin' blame you? Anyone would've forgot about the dumb leak. Big deal."

Ian scowls and mumbles something under his breath.

"Huh?" Lip asks.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"What difference does it make?" Lip asks, and when Ian doesn't respond, Lip leans in and continues on with his logic, "My point is, you can't go through life just blaming every mistake you make on bein' bipolar. Sometimes you just make mistakes 'cause you make 'em. Otherwise, what excuse do the rest of us have?"

Ian takes a long swig of whiskey and rubs his eyes again. His eyeliner is smeared all over now, his black eye is becoming visible again, and his hair is still standing up in a greasy mess. He looks terrible.

"When was the last time you had somethin' to eat, man?" Lip asks him, "When was the last time you slept?"

"I don't know. It doesn't matter."

"Drink more," Lip advises him, hoping to sooth Ian into being able to sleep. That's probably what he needs now more than anything.

While Ian continues taking glum sips, Lip locates an orange in the mini fridge and peels it for him. Lip's hands are shaking as he does this, which confuses him at first, but then he realizes that he's shaking with anger. He could kill Monica right now.

"You were right," Ian says.

"'Bout what?"

"You said they'd go away and take Yevgeny with them. They did."

Lip hesitates, uncertain how to respond. He's not exactly thrilled to have been right in this instance. He never would've wished this kind of pain on his brother, not for all the rightness in the world.

"Here," he says, handing Ian the orange, hoping this is sufficient distraction to drop the subject, "Let's make sure you don't get scurvy on top of everything else."

Lip is pleased to see Ian eat the orange slices. But Ian still seems to be going over some kind of a list of failures in his head.

"I hurt Carl," he says.

Lip smirks at this. "Yeah, well, think he paid you back all right."

"I don't wanna hurt anybody. I don't wanna do that stuff to you guys."

"You haven't hurt anybody, okay? You did a good thing with Carl. You were lookin' out for him. And you fucked up with Mickey, but you'll figure it out. If not with him, with the next guy."

Ian's face crumples up at this, but he recovers quickly, resuming an awkward attempt at stoicism.

"Were you…You working on something?" he asks in a shaky voice, seeming to notice for the first time all the books and papers scattered around.

"Nothin' important," Lip assures him.

"I should go. I'm sorry."

Lip scrambles to stop Ian from standing up. There's no way Lip's letting him back out into the world like this.

"Why don't you lay down?" Lip suggests, "Get a little sleep before you go."

Ian appears to register his own exhaustion as Lip says this. His shoulders lower heavily, his chest sinking in.

"Yeah," Lip says, encouraged, "Just, you know, just lay down for a few minutes, okay?"

Lip pulls back the blanket and sheets and, surprisingly, Ian crawls under the covers like an obedient child.

"All good?" Lip asks, taking the flask from him and setting it on the desk.

"Mmm," Ian murmurs, eyes already closed, "I'm so tired."

"Yeah, that Old Crow'll knock you out good," Lip says, though he's impressed at how quickly it's having this effect. He decides it must be Ian's medication that's sped up the whiskey's effect. Surely that's preferable to the panicked state he arrived in, though.

"Hey," Lip says, the idea just occurring to him with a bit of a jolt, "You supposed to take some meds or somethin' tonight?"

"Left them at the club," Ian says, forcing his eyes open slightly, "Usually take them on my break. Why do I feel so drunk?"

"'Cause you're a fuckin' wreck right now, man," Lip laughs even though he doesn't really feel like laughing.

This gets a slight smile in return from Ian, though it fades as he presses his head deeper against the pillow and mumbles, "I don't wanna be a wreck."

"Yeah, well, get some sleep, then. You'll feel a lot better if you just, you know, get some rest once in a while."

And Ian is out like that. Lip sits on the other bed for a bit, hand buried in his hair, keeping watch over his brother. It's not long before Lip can tell from the sound of Ian's breathing that he has slipped into a deep sleep.

Lip glances over at the abandoned computer and the paper, half-finished if that, still open in Word. He shuts the laptop and begins to dress.

* * *

Lip is apprehensive when he gets to the club, and at first he thinks it's just because he doesn't like the place, doesn't like knowing what Ian does here. But as he notices himself stiffening up every time he sees blonde hair, he realizes he's paranoid about running into Monica. He doesn't want to see her anymore than Ian wanted to.

Making his way to the bar, he relaxes a little. Chances are good that Monica left ages ago. With a nod of his head, Lip gets the attention of a young guy filling a bus tub with dirty glasses.

"Hey, uh, you know Curtis?" Lip asks.

The guy looks uncomfortable. "You gotta talk to somebody else about that stuff."

"No, no," Lip says, moving in closer to him then stepping back as he realizes he's being potentially creepy, "I just…I'm his brother. He went home sick tonight, asked me to come back and get his stuff."

"Oh," the guy says, his face brightening, "You're Ian's brother?"

"Yeah."

"How's he feeling?"

Lip shrugs, uncertain how to answer. "You know, uh, he's been better."

"Yeah, I was worried about him," the guy says, indicating for Lip to follow as he starts weaving his way toward the back corner of the club, "He looked terrible when he took off. Had this crazy old bitch harassing him—sure that didn't help. But he's got one of those faces, you know? Always attracting creeps like you wouldn't believe. Some people are just like that, I guess…"

Lip doesn't say anything to this, but it's too loud to converse much anyway. He follows the guy to a door marked "Employees Only."

"Manager's gotta open the locker for you," the guy says to Lip, "Hang on."

Lip waits uncomfortably as the guy disappears behind the door. Lip tries his best to be invisible, shrinking back against the wall and casting his eyes downward.

Then the guy's back with another, harried-looking middle-aged guy. This new guy ushers Lip into the back corridor while the busboy stays out on the floor.

"You know, he really shoulda said something before he took off," the manager says to Lip with no preamble, leading him through a rabbit warren of storage rooms and offices, "He's always fucking doing this shit, showing up and taking off as he pleases. If he didn't bring in as much money as he does, I never woulda hired him back. Kid's a shitty dancer, anyway."

"Yeah," is all Lip can think to say.

"Nobody gives a shit when they got a cock and an ass and a face like that, though, huh?" the manager laughs.

Even 'yeah' doesn't seem like an appropriate response to this, so Lip decides it's best to just say nothing.

They reach a small room with a couple of benches and mirrors and a wall of lockers. The manager takes out a ring of keys and opens one of the locks by the key release in the bottom. He swings open the locker and then pauses beside it, looking at Lip directly.

"Tell him this is the last time he pulls this crap. I don't care if he's fucking dying of bubonic plague, he keeps dancing."

"Will do," Lip says with a nod.

The manager's phone rings then and he answers it as he heads back to the floor, leaving Lip alone in the changing room.

Lip sits down on the bench and starts pulling the contents from the locker. Ian's boots take up most of the room. Lip takes those out, sets them on the floor. The remaining space is occupied by Ian's backpack and the rest of his street clothes. Lip folds the clothes sloppily and puts them beside him on the bench then he begins rummaging through the backpack to make sure the meds are there. He finds a plastic pill sorter right away, and it gives a satisfying rattle, confirming its contents. But curiosity compels him, and Lip continues pulling out items, thinking somehow he might unlock some secret to Ian's life in here.

He pulls out a stick of deodorant, a handful of squashed protein bars, some more balled-up clothes, and three different tubes of hair product. Ian's phone is in there as well, and Lip sets that beside the pills because he's certain it will be the first thing Ian asks for. Near where the phone was, Lip finds a small notebook stuffed with scraps of paper. He flips through it briefly. Mostly it's just addresses and directions to places, and notes about stuff to do with work ("PX8 bulbs: Jim in facilities"). Lip's not sure if he was expecting to find Ian's deepest, darkest thoughts in diary form, but this is fairly disappointing.

He glances at some of the loose papers tucked between the pages and it's more of the same save for one item. It's a prescription Ian has yet to take to a pharmacy and fill. It's dated yesterday—Ian apparently kept his regular Saturday doctor's appointment, Lip notes with some comfort. The drug name is one Lip recognizes from ads on TV. It's an antidepressant or, really, an antidepressant add-on type thing, one you take when your regular antidepressants aren't doing enough—Lip remembers that from the commercials, remembers thinking that you must be in a pretty pathetic state if your happy pills need their own happy pills.

He flips the prescription over and sees that Ian's written on the backside, "Copay $92." Lip frowns at this and tucks it back into the notebook, puts the notebook down on top of the clothes. He surveys the room once more briefly, not even sure what he's looking for but certainly not finding it. He holds open the backpack to slide Ian's things back in, but spies some folded up papers wedged along the very bottom of the bag. Lip pulls them out and unfolds them. These must be papers left from when this was Ian's school backpack—they're all from high school and dated from a year ago—Ian's probably forgotten that they were even in here. The first is a flier for some school fundraiser nonsense. The second piece of paper is a Trigonometry quiz Ian failed. Lip mentally corrects all the answers as he glances over it, noting with a wry smile that Ian actually got the correct answer for two of the questions but second-guessed himself and scratched these out, re-working the problems to incorrect solutions. The last paper is an essay Ian wrote for American History. At the top, the teacher had marked "Insightful Analysis!" next to a big, red 'A.'

For some reason, Lip feels incredibly sad looking at this. Lip finds himself thinking about that day he went back to take his finals and Ian gave him a hard time about Karen. ( _Karen, Karen, fucking Karen)_ Lip folds the essay back up gently and tucks it at the bottom of the bag again. Then he dumps everything back in, zips it up and stands up to go. The backpack slides off the bench onto the floor as Lip stands up and he hears a clink that makes him pause. Yanking the bag up once more, Lip unzips a little pouch on the front. Inside it, Lip finds a couple of pens, Ian's house keys, a big wad of still-damp cash ("Jesus Christ," Lip mutters), and Ian's wedding ring.

Lip examines the ring a moment. He's pretty sure this is not some dramatic gesture, that Ian probably always takes off his ring while working at the club, but it's still interesting to see it here, away from him like this. Such a stupid little thing, this piece of metal and what it stands for. Lip remembers how furious he was when he found out about them getting married. He's still miffed, still resentful that Ian would do something so big and so rash just to prove a point, just to make it clear that Lip and Fiona weren't going to have any say over his life. But now, with the ring here, Mickey in Milwaukee, Ian sound asleep in Lip's bed having come to his brother for help and consolation…it no longer feels so important. Lip smiles at this insignificant little piece of symbolism. He plunks it back in the pouch and heads out.

He's feeling pretty good as he makes his way through the club, Ian's backpack over his shoulder and Ian's boots in hand. Lip can get back to the dorm, give Ian his meds, and settle in to power through this paper that's due in the morning. He can still pull it off if he doesn't sleep, if he doesn't have any more distractions tonight, if he just doesn't stop, just keeps moving forward. Forward, forward, forward. He can do this. He can keep the family afloat, keep himself afloat, the golden goose still steadily paddling along toward a better future for them all.

"Oh, Lip!"

He knows who's touching his shoulder before he even turns to see her. All the music might as well have stopped, all the other people might as well be animatronic dolls with the power cut. Lip's heart seems to have ceased beating, his lungs stalled mid-breath.

Her hair is red, of course, not blonde like he has been expecting. Frank mentioned she was back to dying it again, just like she did when they were kids. A distant part of Lip's brain wonders how he could have possibly forgotten this detail.

"Oh, Lip," she says again, throwing her arms around his neck and leaning against his chest, "I'm so glad to see you!"

She smells. Reeks, really, of sweat and pissy abandoned places and foul breath. She smells like the bums who get too close, lean in right on you when they're begging for a dollar outside the el station. She could pass for one of them too. Her hair is matted, and even in the club lights Lip can see how sallow her skin is, her face sunken and thin. He doesn't know what she's on—clearly it is something—or what she's been through that has gotten her to this state—clearly it's been rough. He doesn't care, he tells himself. He doesn't want to care. He won't.

"Get off me," he says, taking her forearms and trying to force her off.

She's stronger than he expected, though. She holds tight, smiling up at him in that dopey, open way she always has. Her eyes are wide and glossy, in full-on innocent mode. She never resembles Ian more than when her eyes go like this. God, it must have been like a funhouse mirror for him tonight.

And then, all Lip can think about is Ian, distraught and rattled tonight, batted around like a pinball by everybody. Lip looks at Monica's face and thinks about how Ian could only see in her a nightmare vision of his future. Lip thinks about this and thinks about this place that they're standing in right now, how it was Monica who brought Ian here, steered him into this job last winter when he was lost and scared and sick. Monica has always seemed to have one bright idea after another for novel ways to fuck Ian up—fuck all of them up, but Ian and she always had that special relationship—of course she reserves her best work for him.

"Get off of me," Lip repeats, this time managing to shove her off.

But Monica doesn't appear dismayed, bounding back to him like a golden retriever puppy.

"How are you?" she says, "I missed you so much!"

"Keep the fuck away from me."

"Aw, Lip, don't be mad at me. I'm sorry I went away."

"Yeah, stay away," Lip says, his mouth so dry that it's painful to talk, "Wherever you went, go back there. Stay away from all of us."

"How are the kids?" Monica says, oblivious to Lip's anger, "Do they miss me? I miss them so much. Ian wouldn't say. He looks good, doesn't he? He grew up so handsome, just like his dad. If Clayton could see him now, he'd know, he'd see it was really meant to be. What a beautiful thing we had together, you know? It's all of it, it's all meant to be. I can look at him, I can look at you, and I can see that. Everything happens for a reason. You're all growing up so beautiful. I just…my kids are great. You're all so great. I'm so proud. It's so  _good_  to see you..."

Lip stares at her as she babbles and he realizes that it is pointless to be angry with her right now. It would have just as much effect as yelling at the television set. But if he doesn't let himself be angry, then pity might start creeping in. And hope. That's a risk he won't take. He can't feel sorry for her and protect them all too.

"Shut the fuck up," he shouts at her. But it gets lost in the music and the club noise and Monica's own incessant nonsense.

"What?" she shouts back at him, smiling and confused.

"Forget it," he mutters. He picks Ian's boots back up from the floor and turns to leave.

" _Lip_ ," she chides, coming after him and pulling at the hood of his coat, "Dance with me."

He swings back around, ready to tear her head off. But then he stops. The thought occurs to him that Ian  _could_  be like this. If no one had cared, if Ian hadn't fought like hell to do everything he was supposed to, if Ian had just kept tripping on through the underbelly of the city, bouncing from monster to monster, this could've been him years down the line.

"Are you mad at me too?" Monica asks, "Ian's all mad at me. He wouldn't even dance. He used to love dancing with me. Don't be mad at me too, Lip. Don't be mad."

Swallowing hard, Lip looks up at the lights and makes a decision.

He leans in close, right up next to her ear so she can hear him.

"Mom," he says, "Will you come to the hospital with me? I'll take you right now. We'll get you better, Mom. I swear we will."

Monica pulls back, all the warmth drained from her face. "I'm not—"

"Please. Please, Mom. Do it for Ian. He needs you to do this."

She appears so tired and old as she looks at him and asks, "Is that what you did to him? You took him to a hospital?"

"He took himself," Lip says, "We went with him. We got…he got help."

"You didn't help Ian," Monica says, disdainful now, "He's so unhappy, Lip. He used to be magic. He used to be my magic baby, and now he's not. You killed his spirit. You killed his soul."

"Please, Mom."

"No," she says. She backs away from him, shaking her head violently, "No, no, no."

Lip turns to go. But a few paces toward the door, he marches back to her.

He drops the boots and grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her toward him.

"Don't come to the house," he shouts into her face, "Don't come near the kids. And stay away from Ian. You've done enough damage already. Go fuck up your life however you want. Stop takin' everybody else down with you."

Lip snatches the boots back up, repositions Ian's backpack over his shoulder then turns and leaves Monica behind.

* * *

Lip is unable to stop himself from shaking the entire ride back to the dorm. He's not sure if it's from anger, from fear, or some strange combination of the two, but he feels utterly unsettled and somehow the harder he tries to stop himself from shaking, the worse it gets. There's hardly anyone of the train this late on a Sunday night, but the other people in the car give him a wide berth. It's cold comfort.

Back in the dorm, though, Lip has purpose again and feels more himself. He dumps Ian's stuff on Kuz's bed and squats down to inspect the contents of the mini fridge. There isn't anything left to drink but Red Bull and the milk chug Amanda keeps around for when she uses the Keurig she bought Lip. He grabs the milk then goes to wake Ian.

"Hey," Lip says softly, giving him a little shake, "Got your meds."

"Mmm," Ian says but sits up and dutifully takes each pill as Lip hands it to him.

"You go to the club?" Ian asks groggily.

"Yeah."

"Didn't need to do that. Coulda gotten them tomorrow."

"Nah, I didn't want you to go without. And you're sleepin' in tomorrow, all right? Playin' hooky in the morning."

"Sounds nice," Ian murmurs, settling back down under the covers.

"Hey, uh, your boss talked to me," Lip ventures, "At the club?"

"Mmm?"

"Said you're fired. Doesn't want you back."

Ian opens his eyes at this, but seems resigned. "Okay," he says.

"But go back to sleep, all right?" Lip says, "Just take a little break for a while. Lemme handle everything."

Ian's eyes are already closing again, but he gropes the top of the bedspread until he finds Lip's hand and then he squeezes it.

"Thanks," Ian says.

"No problem."

Lip doesn't take his hand back, and Ian falls asleep still loosely holding it. How far they have come from the backseat of the rusted-out Cavalier, but not so far at all.

* * *

 

The paper is forgotten. Lip's far too shaken-up tonight to even contemplate trying to finish it. Instead he gives up and lets himself be haunted. He drinks, and he thinks of Monica. He drinks, and he thinks of Mandy. He drinks, and he thinks of Karen. Fucking Karen.

All the lead-lined boxes labeled 'do not think about ever' that he keeps stashed in the furthest recesses of his brain are out and open, contents strewn across the floor. Lip's ghost baby plays among them, tossing memories of pain and shame and fleetingly grasped happiness into the air and giggling. Lip sits beside the child, helplessly watching it all and drinking himself into the deepest stupor he can manage. And still Ian sleeps on, peaceful, protected from the world at last in this hermetically sealed little dorm room.

At some point, Lip hears an unfamiliar digital trill and realizes it's a text notification on Ian's phone. He glances over at his brother, but Ian's still snoring.

Lip paws at Ian's bag until he locates the phone. Then he swipes it open and squints. It's a text from Mickey:

_Talk tomorrow ok?_

Lip scrolls backwards in the conversation. The previous nineteen messages were all from Ian, none of them eliciting an answer until now. Lip reads them with bleary eyes and his heart aches:

_Please talk to me._

_Please don't be mad._

_I love you._

_Please come back._

_Please talk to me._

_I'm sorry._

_Please come home._

_Please don't hate me._

There's more, but it's all the same. It's all lovesick and vulnerable, and Lip feels second-hand shame that Ian has been rendered so pathetic. It's Mickey who did that to him. It's Mickey who's being selfish and cruel just like Karen. Lip is sick of people who fuck around with other people's hearts. And, more than anything, he's sick of seeing Ian hurt. It's bad enough when it's strangers, but when it's the people who are supposed to care about him, the people who tell Ian they love him and then tear his big, sweet idiot heart to pieces…well, Lip decides he isn't gonna take it anymore. Frank or Monica or Mickey, it doesn't matter. All of this stops right now.

With two taps of his index finger, Lip deletes the message from Mickey.

Immediately, Lip regrets this. But then he reassures himself. A reconciliation is just a Band-Aid for the moment. It's just inviting Mickey back to hurt Ian again later. Better to cut things off clean.

Lip tucks the phone loosely back into Ian's bag and reaches for the Old Crow, disappointed to find it empty. He drums his fingers on the bottle and gazes around at the hoarder mess of memories, every last one of them stemming from lies Lip was told were 'love.'

Then his gaze falls on Ian. Lip is overcome with a desperate need to never let Ian out of his sight again, to never let him out of this room. As long as Ian is here under Lip's watch, Lip can protect him. Keep him away from that awful house, away from the club, away from the perverts and assholes of the world and the monsters who say they love him and then do everything they can to break him.

Lip is going to protect Ian for real from now on. No more half-assed pussyfooting around. He's gonna stand up and be the big brother he was always supposed to be. Lip is gonna do it right this time. And no one will ever hurt Ian again.

Lip picks up Ian's phone once more, goes to the 'favorites' screen and prepares to call Mickey and give him a piece of his mind. But then Lip pauses. For some reason, Mandy pops into his head. Mandy and Karen and that whole fucked up mess.

He's gonna do this Milkovich style. Gotta fight fire with fire if you have any hope of being a good protector, right?

He returns to the text conversation between Ian and Mickey. He sends Mickey a text:

_Don't come back. I'm better off without you._

More satisfied than he's felt in months, Lip deletes the sent message and drags himself into Kuz's bed to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you so much to everyone who continues to read this monster. Your reviews, comments, and kudos bring me such joy. 
> 
> Also, much thanks to the world's greatest beta/hand-holder, the incomparable Avalonia.


	7. Halfway There As It Is

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a few apologies are in order:
> 
> First off, I am very sorry for the delay on this. Real life was a bitch. Next chapter will be following much more quickly, however.
> 
> Second, Fair warning in advance (especially given the fandom mood this week), this chapter is a bit of a bummer. I promise, though, that if you stick with it, things will get significantly more fun from here as we lead up toward a very happy ending.
> 
> Third, I truly, truly want to apologize for not have responded to many of my comments from the last chapter. Real Life + my weird anxiety issues led me to fail epically on that front, and the guilt has been killing me. Please do know that I greatly appreciate all of my readers for sticking with this (at times kind of an indulgent slog of a) story and that I adore the comments that you leave. I re-read them an embarrassing amount of times, especially when I'm trying to gin up the confidence to keep writing. Thank you all who continue to read and review--I'm so very grateful for you and truly apologize for my suckiness. I will try to be better because you deserve that.
> 
> Anyway, as always, I hope you enjoy, look forward to any comments folks may choose to leave, and would like to give profuse thanks to the ever-patient Avalonia320, beta of the century.

Lip dreams about the house a lot. All of these years later, it's still the go-to setting of so many of his dreams—stress dreams, peaceful dreams, nightmares…somehow he always ends up back at the house they stole away from Aunt Ginger.

When they first moved into the house, it might as well have been a mansion. There were rooms upon rooms, three floors, an attic, a roof, a shed under the porch. It seemed that every day he and Ian and Fiona found some new nook or closet to play in, like the house was an organic being, growing faster than their childish explorations could keep up with. For years in his dreams he always found more rooms than there ever were, plus tunnels and hidden compartments, sometimes whole residences tucked behind walls that contained treasures and strange objects, the kinds of things that appealed to his little boy mind. He still sometimes dreams about unknown or forgotten rooms, the Gallagher house of his brain a never-ending series of doors begetting doors, hallways begetting hallways.

It was a perfect house for hide and seek. When they were little, they played epic games of it, sometimes stretching on for whole lost Saturdays, because it was easy to discover a hiding spot that might take ages for someone to seek you out. It was not unusual to secure a spot in some forgotten closet or behind a bureau or a stack of junk that no one had ever really noticed and to fall asleep, waiting to be found.

There was one time that Lip still dreams about on occasion, when he and Ian had the entire house to themselves. Frank was off on a bender, and Monica had taken Fiona shopping to get things for the new baby that was coming, so that would've made Ian the upper end of four and Lip encroaching upon six, he supposes. They'd played a while that day, growing more and more clever with their hiding spots, each consistently outdoing the other.

It was Lip's turn as It, and he counted high, giving Ian the extra time he always allowed for his little brother even though Ian didn't really need it—although he was younger, he was just as good at hiding as Lip was. He was even better, in a way, because Ian was tiny and could fit into spaces Lip had grown too big for, wriggling into the space beneath a dresser on legs or folding himself up under the kitchen sink. Still, Lip always found him.

When Lip reached the count this time, however, he couldn't find Ian anywhere. Lip searched the main floor, every nook and cubby he could find, the kitchen cabinets, under the stairs, the furnace closet, even under the couch, but there was no sign of him. Then Lip moved onto the second floor, spent ages dragging through each room, every closet, under every bed. It was such a mess that it took forever to make it through the second floor and Lip half wondered if Ian had somehow found a way to switch hiding spots without Lip seeing. Exhausted, Lip called out for him, tried to call off the game and forfeit, but there wasn't any answer back.

Lip headed down to the basement, moved between all the boxes and old furniture and junk down there and still couldn't find any sign of his brother. Concerned now, he climbed back up the stairs and went outside the check the yard and the storage shed under the porch, growing more and more nervous. He peered up and down the alley, behind the neighbor's garages. Lip was half starting to believe that Ian had been beamed up by aliens. Lip had been reading lots of books from the library on extraterrestrial life, and he shuddered at the image of Ian walking off with those slender, gray men.

Panic rising in his belly, Lip ran back up the steps into the house only to find Fiona, Monica, and Ian all standing in the kitchen. Lip's relief at seeing Ian was tempered by confusion. Ian was taking in breaths like a fish tossed on the shore, and Fiona had her arm over his shoulders, looking terrified herself.

But pain was swiftly added to Lip's confusion as Monica stepped toward Lip and slapped him hard across the face. He'd never been the one hit before.

"He could've died!" Monica shouted at Lip, her face contorted in terror and outrage, "You were supposed to watch him!"

Still dazed by his first slap, Lip managed to ask Ian, "Where were you?"

"He was hiding in the dryer," Fiona explained for him.

"He couldn't breathe!" Monica said, "If we hadn't come home and heard him pounding…" Her voice broke off abruptly and she just stared into space with a look of harried concentration on her face, as if she was imaging some scene.

Lip was imagining too: Ian curled up with the still-warm towels, dozing off in that cozy dark space, waking up in a panic without enough air and unable to unlatch the door from inside, kicking and screaming while Lip was outside searching the alley, wondering if aliens had come for his brother.

Lip stood there speechless, visualizing this horror as Ian continued to the tail end of his hyperventilation, and Fiona rubbed soothing circles on his back.

But Monica seemed to interpret Lip's silence as insolence or lack of concern. She sparked back to attention and moved forward on him, her rage so deep her eyes were barely visible, making her face look like a monstrous crumpled sightless mask.

Fiona screamed when Monica boxed Lip's ears. Then Fiona wrapped her arm around Ian and pulled him back with her to the relative safety behind the stove while Monica took out all her fear and guilt on Lip.

Lip doesn't remember much more than that, though, because her hits to his ears made him woozy. It must have only lasted a few seconds—he knows at some point Monica started to cry and then pulled Lip to her to hug this time—but it felt like it went on for minutes, this shocking, disorienting pain. Lip wobbled between her hits and found himself picturing Ian tumbling around in the dryer drum like a tennis shoe. It was an absurd but uncanny image, and some distant, disconnected part of Lip wanted to laugh.

"It's not funny!" Monica screeched, detecting something like a smile on Lip's face, but then she was holding him and crying, and the whole thing was a mess as always.

Then somehow Lip found himself sitting at the kitchen table, watching as Fiona scrambled to follow Monica upstairs. Fiona had been trailing Monica like a warden ever since her return, determined never to let her out of sight again.

"Don't cry, Lip," Ian said, and that was when Lip realized that his face was wet and that Ian was sitting on the chair beside him.

"I'm not crying," Lip asserted, rubbing snot all over his own sleeve.

"Yes, you are," Ian said with a look of confusion, "I see you."

"I'm not," Lip insisted, ears flaming hot at all Ian had witnessed. Ian, who believed with all his heart that Lip was the coolest, smartest brother in the world, had just seen him screw up so badly, get punished in such a disgraceful way, and now he was watching Lip be a crybaby. No way. Lip couldn't take that look of pity from  _Ian_ , couldn't take this humiliation.

"Why are you so stupid?" Lip demanded to know, deflecting attention from his embarrassing tears.

Ian didn't have an answer for that, but he looked suitably ashamed. Lip was encouraged to continue.

"She's not gonna like you anymore once the new baby comes," he told Ian, "Next time she'll just let you die."

Now Ian was crying, and Lip felt better.

He did his best to get up casually, strut his way all-knowingly to the living room, but he was still dizzy, so it was less than convincing. Lip plopped down on the couch and turned on the TV. A moment later, Ian crawled up onto the couch as well.

They watched cartoons for a while, but that wasn't what Lip remembers best. What he remembers is Ian scooting gradually closer and then Lip scooting even closer until they were sitting shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip, reassuring each other without saying a word that they were both still here and still okay. Nothing had been broken that couldn't be fixed.

Lip still dreams of this event, of Ian lost and nearly dying, of Monica's blind fury and that confusing pain. The dream will lay dormant for years, then come back with shocking familiarity. Sometimes the ear boxing goes on for hours. Sometimes no one ever finds Ian. Sometimes Lip just wanders through the Gallagher house, unclear what he should be looking for, but knowing with dread certainty that pain and punishment await. But always Lip wakes with knowledge reconfirmed that mothers and brothers and houses that grow bigger the deeper you dig inside of them are not to be trusted. They always somehow lead, whether they mean to or not, to the prospect of death or at the very least disaster.

And you just can't ever stop hiding and seeking with that one.

* * *

There's a thumping. Right beneath Lip's ear, vibrating his whole jaw. For a moment Lip isn't sure if it's Monica boxing his ears again or Ian tumbling in the dryer drum. Either way, he winces.

Slowly, he becomes aware that it is neither, of course. It's the alarm on his phone going off, buried beneath his pillow. He groans for mercy and fumbles with the phone until it stops.

He lays in blissful silence for a moment, nearly slips back into unsanctioned sleep, but catches himself just in time.

Lip's eyes are crusted over and gummy and his eyelids feel like lead shields, but he manages to get them open.

He's in Kuz's bed, and Ian is in Lip's bed. The memory of the night before ( _Monica_ ) drifts back, settling onto his chest with substantial weight.

With much effort, he dredges up his voice.

"Ian," Lip says hoarsely, "You gonna call into work?"

Ian doesn't respond, but Lip can tell by the way he's breathing that he isn't asleep.

"Ian," Lip repeats, "It's morning. You gotta call in if you're not goin'."

Ian rolls deeper into the bedding and mumbles something.

"Huh?" Lip asks.

"Leave me alone," Ian growls, pulling a pillow around his head and neck to build a barricade.

Lip watches his brother crawl back into that old dryer and pull the door shut behind himself. A throbbing sets in behind Lip's temple.

"Fuck," Lip whispers and reaches for his cigarettes.

* * *

"The hell you doing, Gallagher?"

Lip startles to attention and realizes he's been allowing the dishes on the conveyer belt to reach the end without removing them. They're clanking into each other and piling up into a mound. It's about two seconds away from setting off the sensor and causing the conveyor belt to stop moving right in the middle of the morning breakfast rush.

"Sorry," Lip says and begins grabbing dishes and trays hurriedly, transferring what he can to the sinks. His supervisor eyes him for a moment longer before moving on to yell at somebody about the doughnuts not being 'shingled' properly.

Once Lip manages to get the dish situation back under control, he allows his mind to return to its rumination, though he keeps his hands moving this time.

Ian's still a lump in Lip's bed, unresponsive even when Lip stood right next to him and called him in sick to work. Monica working her magic, Lip thinks bitterly, or maybe Mickey. Or maybe just Ian's shitty, cruel brain.

At a loss for what else to do, Lip had dressed and left for his cafeteria shift, locking the door carefully behind him. He hadn't felt right leaving Ian, though. It had put a uneasy tension in Lip's shoulders, stepping out of that room, as if any number of predators unknown were lying in wait just around the corner from the elevator, ready for a sneak attack the moment Lip abandoned his guard duty.

Lip assured himself this was stupid, however. The door was locked, so no one was getting in unless Ian invited them, vampire-style. And while Lip wouldn't put it past Ian to blithely welcome in all means of bloodsuckers to have their way with him, experience also told him that Ian wasn't likely getting out of bed anytime soon. Ian was probably safer, locked in the dorm room, than he'd been anywhere else in the past year.

Still, Lip's been distracted and anxious all through his shift. He doesn't remember a whole lot of detail from the end of the previous night—it's a vague, drunken haze and he's not sure which parts of it actually happened and what was half a dream—but a sick feeling is still laying heavy in his gut. He can't stop seeing Monica, her eyes bright and overly desperate in the club lights. The sight of her made him feel at once four years old again and scared, eight years old and broken-hearted, thirteen years old and betrayed, seventeen years old and shaking with rage.

He's furious and unsettled all over again, so he sprays the dirty dishes down more than is strictly necessary and forces himself to think about something else, anything else. Unfortunately, when he tries to hit on anything else to think about, it's all unsettling—Ian, Carl, Fiona, Debbie…So he tries to move away from people, and his brain lands with a thud on school.

The paper never got finished last night, of course. It's due after his cafeteria shift is over and that's clearly not going to happen. Lip has run the numbers and percentages a few times already, figuring out different ways that it may still be possible to pass the class and stay off of academic probation. Academic probation would mean the end of his scholarship and his work-study funds—the end of college, essentially, and the start of genuine, irreversible failure. He thinks he can avoid it, though. If he just doesn't fuck up one more assignment, and if he does practically perfect on every assignment and exam from here on out, he can still pass this class with the grade he needs.

The thought is exhausting, though, and not seeming terribly realistic this morning. Not with a wrecked lump of a brother upstairs, three other siblings careening toward disaster, Monica on the loose, and the fact that Lip can't even seem to start the simplest of school tasks these days without some new calamitous interruption every twenty minutes derailing everything. Christ, he needs a drink.

As if on cue, his phone rings.

Lip glances around and sees that his supervisor is out on the floor of the cafeteria—Lip can just make out his bald head bobbing over by the coffee samovars. Cautiously, Lip slips the phone out of his apron pocket and checks it. It's Fiona calling.

"Shit," he mutters, stepping away from his coworkers into the relatively private space between a freezer and a cart of freshly washed cafeteria trays.

"What's wrong?" Lip answers, getting right to the point.

"Ian's missing. Mickey's havin' a fit."

"Wait—Mickey's back?"

"No, no, he's still in Wisconsin. Guess Ian told him not to come back? I don't know what's going on with those two, but, anyway, Mickey's been tryin' to check up on him and I guess Iggy told him Ian never came home last night, and he's not answerin' his phone, not for me  _or_ Mickey and, shit, Lip, I don't know what to do—you said he was okay Saturday when you stopped by, right? He seemed okay?"

"He's fine," Lip says quickly, eager to push that brittle, frantic edge out of Fiona's voice, "He's not missing. He's here with me."

"Oh, thank god. Shit. Thank god."

There's a pause as Fiona breathes deeply and shelves panic in favor of concern. "He doin' all right?" she asks.

"He's fine."

Fiona seems to be about to accept this reassurance, then Lip can almost hear her eyebrows furrowing in doubt.

"You sure?" she asks, "Fine? Really? I don't—"

Lip sees the tip of his supervisor's head approaching the kitchen and says, "I gotta go. Ian's fine. Don't worry. Tell Mickey to lay off."

"But—"

Lip ends the call, drops the phone back in his apron pocket and returns to the conveyor belt just in time to catch another dish pile-up before his supervisor does.

When Lip ends his shift an hour later, he heads back to his dorm instead of going to class. There's no point to class, really—he's got no paper to turn in. He has no desire to sit there like a guilty man on trial while his professor collects the papers and asks questions about what they all learned in the process of their research. Besides, Lip feels a driving compulsion to get back to Ian as soon as possible. It's not rational—Lip knows Ian's not going anywhere and that there's really nothing tangible Lip can do for him in this state—but Lip also knows, just  _knows_  that it's the one place he needs to be right now

Unlocking the door of his room, however, Lip finds Fiona sitting at the end of the bed, glaring at him over the pile of blanket that is Ian.

"We need to talk, buddy," she says.

"Who let you in?" Lip asks.

"Some little douche with a lanyard."

"Fuckin' RAs."

"Outside," Fiona says sharply, gesturing toward the door, "Now."

Lip allows his sister to herd him right back out of the room. As soon as the door is closed and they're both standing in the hallway, Fiona shoves him hard.

"I  _knew_  you were lying! I  _knew_  somethin' was up!"

"I didn't lie," Lip protests, "He's fine."

"That doesn't look like fine to me."

"Safe, then. He's safe. Safer than he'd be alone in that house, all right? And just, give it a little bit. He'll be fine. It's okay. I'm not lettin' anything happen to him."

Fiona squints at Lip, her anger replaced with suspicion. She's caught something Lip wasn't aware he needed to hide. He flushes as she cocks her head at him.

"You all right?" she asks.

"I'm fine."

"What's goin' on with you?"

"Nothing," Lip turns away slightly, feeling uncomfortably exposed, "I'm just tired. Haven't been sleepin' great."

"You look like shit."

"Yeah, well," Lip gestures toward the door of his room, "Him showin' up like that…kind of a long night."

Fiona sighs and pushes her hair back from her face. "All right," she says, "Think we can get him on his feet? I'll take him back to the house with me."

"No!" Lip says, more intensely than he means to. He attempts to sound more casual as he adds, "He's—he's fine here. It's not a big deal."

Fiona's clearly not buying it, though she also doesn't seem to understand what the hell he's really doing, which makes sense—Lip doesn't even understand it himself. All he knows is that the idea of Ian being out of his sight right now is filling him with absolute panic.

"Lip, you've got school. You don't need to be dealin' with this right now."

"It's fine," he insists, "I'm handling it. It's goin' fine."

Fiona gives him a skeptical look.

"Hey, between Mickey and Monica," Lip argues, "I think it's pretty impressive he hasn't jumped out a window yet."

Fiona starts to react defensively to the macabre nature of the second half of this statement, but then Lip watches as the first half fully registers. She is speechless for a second then she asks, "Monica?"

Lip's hearts slows down a bit as he feels himself gain some control of this conversation. He hadn't realized his heart was racing until now, but he takes advantage of it this new calm.

"He ran into her last night," Lip informs her, "We both did."

"Shit. God  _damn_  it."

Lip watches Fiona struggle with this new information, reorienting herself on this pulled-out rug. The more unease he detects in her face, the steadier he feels. Somehow it gives him enough confidence to venture forth with selling a plan that has just started to solidify in his head.

"But don't worry," he assures her, "I got it all under control. I'll keep an eye on him, and if this doesn't blow over in a day or two, I'll take him in. Just…let me handle it. But I'm not lettin' him go back to his life like that, okay? No more of this playin' house, actin' like everything's cool when it's not."

Lip continues with growing conviction, the plan becoming more real and enticing as he puts it into words: "He's gonna stay with me until we get everything straightened out. No more of this Mickey crap or this burnin' the candle at both ends crap…the club, the drugs…gonna get him healthy and focused on what he should be focusin' on. All right? I'm gonna take care of it. I'm gonna…I'm gonna fix everythin' for him."

To his surprise, Fiona seems unimpressed. Worse, she's looking at Lip like he's crazy.

"So, what?" she asks, "You're just gonna hide him in your dorm room and…what? Nurse him back to health? Like that time Debbie found those baby sparrows that fell out of the nest? You remember that? With the heat lamp and the milk? She fed them  _milk_ , Lip. Remember how that turned out? Dead baby birds and Debbie cryin'."

"It's not like that," Lip says, thinking of how wrecked Ian looked last night, how much Ian had scared him this weekend with his complete lack of self-preservation instinct or hope. If Fiona had seen him, she'd understand. She'd get why Lip needs to step in now and keep everybody else the fuck away until it's all fixed. Lip can fix everything if they'll just give him a fucking chance to work in peace.

Fiona sighs and crosses her arms, "We gotta call Mickey."

"No," Lip says forcefully, "He left, all right? He should just stay gone. We don't—Ian doesn't need that shit."

"Oh, please," Fiona scoffs, "They had a fight, he blew off some steam. Ian lyin' to him like that? I'd need some space to figure out how to handle that too. I mean, Jesus, they're  _married_. Ian's gotta stop doin' this crap."

"You don't think there's a reason why he's still doin' this crap? Christ, he was goin' out, havin' this whole other life, runnin' himself ragged, doin' all this dangerous fuckin' shit, and Mickey didn't even have a clue."

Fiona is a quiet a moment then says, "That's what Ian does. Think about all the stuff he kept from us. All that…we never noticed, Lip. We never knew."

"Yeah, well, we're noticin' now. Mickey had his chance. He blew it."

Fiona rolls her eyes. "You have got to get over whatever this thing is you have with Mickey. Let it go already."

"No," Lip says, shaking this off, "I'm not stayin' out of it anymore. I'm steppin' in and I'm gonna do what Ian needs."

Fiona looks past Lip for a moment, choosing her words carefully. Then she says, "You ever think about what Ian  _wants_?"

"Ian doesn't know what he wants."

Though she doesn't say anything back to this, Fiona's eyes do plenty of talking for her, and Lip feels slightly chastised. It's not enough to make him let this go, though. Nothing could make him let this go now.

Lip inflates his chest a bit with bluster he doesn't really feel, and starts searching for grenades to throw. "All that shit he's been doing," he says, "You're just okay with that?"

"No, but—"

"I mean, last time you were in charge, he ran away to the fuckin' Army, ended up on the street doing god knows what, livin' with Monica, workin' the club…"

"It's different now," Fiona asserts, but the shame in her eyes undermines this, and Lip launches forward, smelling blood.

"What, now that you've pawned him off on Mickey? Yeah, Mickey in charge is workin' out real great."

"Nobody's  _in charge_ , Lip," Fiona argues weakly, "Ian's an adult. We can't run his life for him."

"Somebody's gotta be in charge. Somebody's gotta fix this…" Lip trails off unexpectedly, finding himself distracted by the memory of Ian so distraught last night, of Ian the night before that on a coked-up deathwish all because he's so convinced he's nothing now. Lip shakes his head and whispers, "He's a broken fuckin' kid."

"Don't say that."

Lip buries his hand in his hair. "What do you want me to say? You didn't see—you haven't seen him like I've seen him lately. If you'd…the other night, and, I mean, last night, he…"

Fiona reaches out to touch his shoulder, but he steps back from her, managing through his annoyance to get his words back together, "I'm not lettin' somethin' happen because I'm worried about pissing him off. Or pissing fuckin' Mickey off. Piss 'em both off, I don't give a shit."

"Lip…"

"No," he says, raising his head and tossing his final grenade, "I'm not gonna drop the ball on this like you did. We're responsible for him.  _I'm_  responsible for him. You go home and try not to fuck up with Debbie and Carl like you did with Ian, all right? Think you can handle that?"

Fiona's eyes have gone all big like Ian's, the same kicked puppy look they both wear so well. Then she begins to nod, gathering herself to some resolution.

"Okay," she relents finally, sounding tired, "I'm stayin' out of it. Do what you think is right."

Lip finds himself, absurdly, feeling like he should thank her. He doesn't, of course.

"Don't get in over your head, though," Fiona warns him with her last shred of authority. She inclines her head back toward the wall behind which their brother is paralyzed with hopelessness and says, "If this shit keeps on, you gotta bring him to the professionals."

"I will. I know."

Fiona takes a shuddery breath, pushes her purse up onto her shoulder and begins walking toward the elevator. She pauses, though, and turns back to him.

"Where'd you see Monica last night?"

That tiny glint of hope in her eyes kills him.

"Don't," he says.

"What?"

"Don't go lookin' for her. Don't do that to yourself."

Fiona starts to say something, changes her mind and instead asks, "How was she?"

"Lost cause," he says bluntly.

Fiona bites her lip and nods slowly. The elevator doors open and she bids him a cold, "Good luck."

The second she is gone, Lip's heart starts up racing once more and he finds his hands shaking again like they did last night on the train. Unnerved, he lets himself back into the room and goes immediately for his bottle.

Lip takes a long, steadying sip and feels better. He sits on the floor beside the bed and reclines until the back of his head is resting against Ian's back. It's reassuring. Nothing has been broken. Everything can be fixed.

After all these months of drought, Lip has finally got a plan again. It feels good, feels like old times.

* * *

Lip doesn't realize he's dozed off until he awakes with a start to pounding on the door.

"Shit," he mutters as he stumbles to his feet, "Shit. Stop."

He glances at Ian, who's scrunched his arms up over his head to block out the sound. Lip rushes to open the door and make the pounding stop.

Amanda bursts into the room as soon as Lip has unlatched the door. She's got a laundry basket under her arm and immediately begins flinging things into it: markers, the Keuring coffee maker, a desk lamp, a set of Bose desk speakers, books, a cashmere sweater…

"What are you doing?" Lip demands.

"I'm done wasting my time on you," Amanda announces, throwing open his dresser drawers and removing specific articles of clothing. She apparently has an encyclopedic list of every item she's purchased for Lip the past three quarters.

"You can't even bother to turn in the papers that I help you write, show up to class, send a stupid email to the professor, or answer my texts," she explains, moving onto his closet, "I don't mind doing 99%, but I sure as hell am not doing 100%."

"Fuck," Lip murmurs, rubbing his hands roughly over his eyes, "Can you at least do this quietly?"

Amanda snorts and is about to say something else when she notices the motionless body in the bed. She pauses.

"Is that Ian under there?" she asks.

Lip nods.

"Is he sick?

"No, he's, uh…"

"Oh," Amanda says in realization, "Oh, shoot."

Lip watches in bemusement as she kneels down by the bed and pulls up the corner of the blanket to peer under and look Ian in the face.

"I'm sorry, Ian," she says to him, "I didn't mean to be loud and annoying."

Then, to Lip's complete bewilderment, she gives Ian a peck on the temple and assures him, "You look good with stubble. You'll get through this."

Tucking the blanket back the way it was, she stands up and resumes pulling clothing from the closet. Lip takes a seat on Kuz's bed and lights up a cigarette as he watches her work.

When she goes for his laptop, however, he jumps to his feet.

"Hey, no! I need that!"

Amanda shushes him with a scowl.

Lip rolls his eyes and then mouths, "I need that."

Now Amanda rolls her eyes. She takes out her phone and nods toward Lip.

With yet another eye roll, Lip takes out his phone and sets it to silent. Then he texts her:

_I need the laptop to do my work._

_Not my problem._

_Come on. It was a gift._

_A gift with strings attached._

_What am I supposed to do?_

_You figure it out, genius._

_Can I give it back to you at the end of the term?_

_How about you rent it?_

_How much?_

_I'll crunch some numbers and get back to you._

_Jesus. Fine._

_How about 'thank you'?_

Lip glares at her. Amanda glares right back. Then she puts her phone in her pocket and hefts up the now-full laundry basket.

As she reaches the door, Lip opens it for her and Amanda indicates for him to follow her into the hallway.

In the hall, Lip closes the door to the room gently and leans in as Amanda asks, "Is he gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," Lip nods, "Yeah. Should be."

He runs his hand over the back of his neck nervously and then asks, "Um, if, uh, if not, though, you think I could borrow the Beamer if I need to, you know, take him? It's just a lot easier with a car."

"Sure. Of course."

"Thanks."

Amanda glances back toward the door and asks, "Is that why you missed class today?"

"Part of the reason. Didn't finish the paper, though, either."

"Ask for an extension."

"I don't wanna do that."

"Why not? Just tell Steigler what's going on, ask her for another week, and you'll be fine. They give extensions all the time. Just be pathetic."

Lip sniffs bitterly and drags on his cigarette, half waiting for some RA to come and rag on him for smoking or for the fucking detector to go off. It's probably a bad sign for their fire safety, he thinks, that it hasn't yet.

As he's having this pointless thought, he hears himself confess to her, "Think I'm flunkin' out."

"You aren't yet," Amanda says, but then obviously stops herself from saying more. Instead she replaces whatever she was going to say with, "You're not stupid. You can figure this out."

Lip gives her a smirk, but can't bring himself to say anything to this half-hearted encouragement.

Amanda repositions the laundry basket on her hip and says, "I told myself I wasn't going to care anymore and, believe me, I don't, but you really shouldn't skip your lab tonight. You're doing well in there and you know you've got a practical this week you need to be ready for."

Lip nods with no enthusiasm. "Yeah," he agrees then sighs, "I just can't leave him."

"Why? Doesn't look like he's going anywhere."

"I know, I know. I just…I don't know what it is, but I can't. I can't leave him alone."

He's not sure why he's being so honest with Amanda right now—he's seldom this straight-forward with anyone, surely not anyone currently in the process of breaking up with him. Still, he looks her in the eyes and is relieved to find some sympathy there. He desperately needs somebody to understand him right now.

"I can stay with him," she says.

"What?"

"Why not? Less trouble than watching Liam. And it's probably a much quieter place to study than at Delta Pi."

Lip is speechless.

"Go to your lab," she tells him, "I'll just hang out here and call you if anything comes up."

"Jesus," Lip mutters and bobs forward to kiss her.

Amanda steps back from him awkwardly, putting a hand up to ward him off.

"Shit," he says, "Right. Not doing that anymore."

"Just go to your lab," Amanda says with exasperation, "We'll talk about this later."

"We have to?"

"Yes."

"Yeah, okay," he agrees. He opens the door to go in and grab his lab stuff, but then he darts back and kisses her anyway.

"Thank you," he says.

"Ugh, rapey. Go, already."

Lip gives her a grateful smile and ducks in to get his stuff.

* * *

In the lab, Lip sits on his stool with the other students, listening to the professor lecture, but can't for the life of him concentrate on what the man is saying. Instead, Lip keeps thinking about the floor in the Gallagher kitchen. Made up of peel and stick yellowed vinyl tiles from the early 1980s, Lip had never paid all that much attention to it. It was simply the grimy surface where things got dropped and sometimes picked up, sometimes not. Sometimes crap just accumulated there for years, forgotten.

When he'd been by the house on Saturday, however, fixing the leak with Carl and cleaning up afterward, Lip had noticed the seams between the tiles by the sink were a deep brown-reddish, different from the gray white of the rest of the room. Lip had sat back on his heels, puzzled by this detail, and noted that the tiles themselves, those that covered the floor space between the sink and stove, had a brownish cast to them. It wasn't a variation in the product or a change due to use or wear—Lip could tell that right away. These tiles had been stained by something, something impenetrable and impossible to fully erase.

Unable to figure it out, Lip had pushed this curious detail away and focused on finishing up with the plumbing, on making sure things were right with Carl.

But now his curiosity about this detail has suddenly returned, and Lip doesn't understand why. It's not important. He should be listening to his professor, focusing on saving his own ass this semester, focusing on how the fucking hell he's gonna fix Ian, get everything back on track for him, just get him out of bed, for starters. The filthy floor at the Gallagher house is not what he should be thinking about right now, but he can't seem to banish it from his brain…

With a start, Lip sits up straighter, finally realizing what it was that seeped into the vinyl and permanently stained it.

And now he feels sick again, his heart picking up pace.

He should've been there; he's felt that for years. Had he been there that Thanksgiving, Lip is certain he could have prevented it. He could've kept a better eye on things than Fiona could alone, distracted by all the chaos like she always is. Lip doesn't get easily diverted or caught up with the little stuff like Fiona, and he's more proactive than the rest of them, never just content to sit and let things happen. Lip would've noticed that something was not right when Monica went into the kitchen. Lip would've known, and Lip would've stopped it from happening. Just like with Liam, the worst always happens when Lip is not around to keep an eye on everything.

Lip's breath hitches because he understands that this is what his brain has been trying to tell him, that it is happening again. He thinks about Ian the other night, coked up and talking so bitterly morbid, so indifferent to his own self-destruction, Ian last night broken in a way that chills Lip to the bone.

He has never been able to envision capable, reasonable Ian as suicidal, even with the diagnosis and those depressive moments Lip has been witness to. Even with the despondent, morose way Ian's been talking these past few months, Lip has been confident that Ian simply would never be able to escape his essential Ian-ness and sink to that kind of despair. But these past couple days…Jesus. It's happening again—one more Gallagher lurch toward tragedy—and Lip's the only one who sees it coming. God knows he's the only one who can stop it.

Lip is pulled out of this spiral of thought by a sudden shift in movement. The professor has stopped lecturing and the lab assistant is now passing back a stack of graded reports. Lip realizes that sometime this past week he's missed another assignment. There isn't any report in that stack with his name on it. Shit.

Lowering his eyes, he slips out his phone and discreetly texts Amanda:

_How's it going?_

He's only somewhat relieved when she replies back:

_All quiet on the Western Front. Steigler's assigned reading for tonight is bullshit, btw._

He puts his phone away, attempts to concentrate on what the lab assistant is telling them now, but he still can't seem to focus. He manages to take notes on about half of it, but when he tries to read the notes back, they don't make a lot of sense.

He's almost grateful when he feels his phone vibrating, even though he knows an actual call can't be good news. He slides his phone back out and frowns at it. It's Mickey calling.

Lip glances up at the lab assistant again, but the class is just about to start the test procedure, so Lip can't step out right now to take the call. He'll have to call Mickey back after lab is over. Lip is not exactly unhappy about this. He needs that time to form a plan.

As he follows his lab partner half-attentively, going through the motions of setting up the procedure, Lip considers the situation and what he needs to do to fix this.

Ian's too invested in Mickey, that much is a given. Too much investment leads to too much grief and too much pain. Obviously, Ian needs to minimize that in his life because, if these past few days are any indication, he can't handle it. But Lip also knows that Ian's incapable of recognizing this himself, or of stepping away from a situation that's destructive to him. This is because Ian's fucking in love, and love is insidious. It decimates all perspective and turns everyone into helpless idiots.

Lip knows what it's like not to be able to stay away from someone who's not good for you. He knows that pull better than anyone. He knows that Ian's powerless to resist that draw, no matter how many lows that kind of love sends him spiraling down into. The only thing that finally stopped Lip from being the moth to that beautiful, incinerating flame, much as he hates to admit it, was the swift intervention of Mandy Milkovich. And that's what Ian needs now. He needs a speeding car to drive through this relationship. He simply can't be his own intervention.

But Lip can be that car.

Of course, Lip will improve on Mandy's technique, use his brain instead of a machine. And Lip's intervention will be clean and bloodless, of course, with no causalities. No one gets hurt this time.

Lip hangs on to this idea, the reassuring timbers of his plan, and manages to get through the remainder of the lab time without disaster. But his heart is picking up pace again now, warning him that it's time to get back.

On his way to the dorm, Lip calls Mickey, shoulders already tensing up as the number rings.

"Fiona said Ian's with you." Mickey answers without preamble.

"Yup."

"He all right?"

"He's fantastic."

Mickey is quiet for a moment. Then he asks, "You lyin'?"

"Nope. Best thing that could've happened to him, you endin' things."

"Ending? The fuck? Lemme talk to him."

"No."

"Fuck you. Put him on the phone."

"No, he's sleepin'."

"Sleepin'? It's not even—" Mickey stops himself then mutters knowingly, "Shit."

Lip fumbles for a cigarette, having a hard time slipping one out of the pack for some reason, almost dropping it before he manages to get it lit.

"All right," Mickey says, "Listen. I gotta get a car I can use, I don't—I'll figure somethin' out, be down there in a few hours. You keep an eye on him until—"

"Don't come."

"What?"

Lip blows smoke into the night air, watching it dissipate into the dark path in front of him and repeats, "Don't come. He doesn't need you."

The line is dead silent for a second then Mickey argues in a voice weighted down with desperation and fear that Lip understands all too well, "There's somethin' goin' on with him…He's not…he's not good right now."

"Yeah, I know there's somethin' goin' on with him. And you fuckin' missed it." Lip shakes his head at the empty sky and doesn't wait for any protest before he asks, "How long's this been goin' on for?"

Mickey says nothing.

Lip continues, "The club shit? How long's he been doin' that? Right under your nose. The fuck has he been gettin' up to? The way he's been talkin' lately? Do you notice  _anything_?"

"Listen, he—I didn't—"

"You're the last person he needs to be around right now."

Mickey lets out a squawk of outrage—a  _squawk_ —and Lip realizes that if he doesn't dial it back, this plan is going to backfire and he's gonna have to deal with Mickey Milkovich on his doorstep, raging like a tiny bumble bee.

"Mickey," Lip says, modulating his tone down to something sympathetic, "Nobody's blamin' you. You didn't know what you were doin'. You don't know Ian. I mean, what? Couple years? Not even that? You don't know him like we do. You don't really know anything about him. You don't know how to handle him. You don't know what he needs."

There's a long pause, so long that Lip thinks maybe the call has been dropped, but then Mickey asks quietly, "What're you sayin' he needs?"

And Lip has no answer for that.

"Just let me handle it," he snaps, "Stay where you are, and give him some fuckin' room to breathe, already."

Lip ends the call, not waiting around to whatever Mickey has to say to that.

He does his best not to see anything the rest of the walk back. One foot in front of the other. It's amazing how difficult it suddenly is right now to pull off a simple concept like that.

He texts Amanda when he gets to the lobby of the dorm, and she's waiting for him in the hallway when he steps out of the elevator. She's got her laundry basket of recalled gifts on her hip, but smiles sweetly as she gives her report.

"He didn't do much. I got him to eat a granola bar and drink some water, though."

"You did? How the fuck did you do that?"

"I'm very persuasive."

"But he doesn't even want to sleep with you. How'd you swing that?"

Amanda shoves him, and Lip smiles, despite himself. Then she hefts up her basket and says, "I gotta go."

"Sure," Lip agrees, feeling a strange sense of abandonment creeping over him as she moves toward the elevator, "Thanks, though. Really. It, uh, it was really nice of you."

"It's not a big deal. Hope he feels better soon."

She turns away from him as she reaches the elevator, but Lip calls out, "We really done, then?"

"Yeah," she nods, "I think so."

He nods back. "Okay."

"You could fight for me, you know? For this?"

"Nah," Lip shakes his head, "I don't—you deserve better."

"It's all about me now, huh?"

"No," Lip explains, "That's the problem."

Amanda keeps her head bowed, her hair falling forward to obscure her face. She hits the button and they stand there in silence, waiting for the elevator to give this moment, their relationship, and end.

She turns to face him unexpectedly, though, and asks, "You doing all right?"

"Sure."

"You look terrible."

"Eh. Not sleepin' much lately."

"You're shaking. You were before too."

Lip realizes she's right. He holds his hand out in front of him for a moment and watches it, perturbed. He does his best to brush this off, though.

"Coffee, maybe," he says, even though he hasn't had a drop all day.

Mercifully, the elevator arrives and Amanda steps in and hits the button for the lobby. Lip doesn't watch as the doors close her from view.

After she has gone, Lip stands outside his door for a moment, staring at his trembling hand. This happened to him once before, many years ago, the first time he got sent to the group facility in foster care. He'd always been paired with Ian previously and always in family homes. But Lip had been on his own this time. Small for fourteen—he could've passed for twelve at that point—the other boys had laid into him unceasingly. Weeks of that. He'd never told anyone, though. Not even Ian.

He drops his hand, takes a deep breath, and goes into the room.

Ian is still the same mound of blanket and bleak, appearing not to have moved an inch. The sun has risen and set while he has lain here, an entire day lost to the ether.

"Hey," Lip says, switching on the desk lamp, "You wanna get up? Move around? Gonna get blood clots. Bedsores. Pillow face."

Ian doesn't answer.

"You at least gotta piss, right?"

Lip does his best not to be too bothered by this lack of response. He can tell Ian's still breathing. That's something. Bare minimum, but still…something.

He lights another cigarette and picks up Ian's pill sorter. They've missed the earlier dose, but they can still make the evening dose.

"Gotta take your meds," Lip announces.

The continued lack of response is not unexpected, but still frustrating. Lip shrugs and sets the sorter on the desk. As he savors his cigarette, he takes up Ian's phone. There are a dozen missed calls from Mickey, half a dozen more from Fiona this morning. Lip taps past them, making his way to the contacts list. He finds the number for Ian's psychiatrist and the number for his therapist as well. Lip forwards the info to his own phone and then carefully puts Ian's phone back in his bag.

Possessing this information, however, makes Lip feel worse rather than better. He doesn't want to have to call anybody. He doesn't want to let Ian back out into the dangerous air of the outside world; that's where all the trouble starts, when all the hawks begin circling the hare.

He tells himself it makes sense to wait a little longer. It's only been a day; Ian might come out of this on his own. With Monica, sometimes it was weeks, sure, but sometimes only a day or two. Then Lip twists open the cap on a new bottle of Old Crow and sips until his confidence in the idea of a 48-hour funk becomes firm.

He never takes his eyes off the lump on his bed, though. Last time this happened, when Ian had his big crash at the Milkovich house, when it became clear to all of them what was going on, Lip had found every excuse not to see him. He didn't want to face that lump, didn't want to face his brother like that.

Here it is now, however, unavoidable. There's no making up excuses to get out of this, no out of sight or out of mind.

Lip remembers how they used to have to help Monica to the bathroom when she was in her funks; she wouldn't (or couldn't) take herself. Lip and Fiona and Ian, they'd all done turns forcing her up, walking her over, sometimes even helping her get her goddamn pants off and back on again. That was the most Lip would do for her, though, and only because he didn't want to deal with the shame of the alternative. He left the forced sponge baths to Fiona, and Ian was usually better at getting Monica to eat anyway.

But at some point Lip had stopped even helping on the bathroom runs. He just ran out of sympathy for a woman who, far as he could remember, had never done a damn thing for him, never loved him at all. She'd always treated him like some random adult boarding at their house who talked about things she wasn't really interested in. She talked a lot about his grades and tests when she was feeling up, even bragged about him. But she never talked  _to_  him. Not really.

"Fuck it," Lip says out loud, stubbing out his cigarette and setting down the bottle.

"Come on," he says and grabs hold of Ian's blanket, "You gotta go to the bathroom."

"No," Ian manages to protest, "Leave me alone," but his grip is weak and Lip yanks the blanket and sheet off of him fairly easily.

"Come on," Lip says again.

Ian covers his head with his arms in a sad attempt to remain in hiding, but this just makes it easier for Lip to grab him around the chest and haul him up.

"Stop," Ian whines, but Lip ignores him.

He gets Ian onto ragdoll feet and walks him clumsily out the door and down the hall. The bathroom has never seemed so far away, but at least Ian isn't fighting him.

Lip gets him to the bathroom after the longest journey ever and is relieved to find it empty of other students. He walks Ian to the urinals and allows Ian to lean against the wall. Ian squeezes his red eyes shut and mumbles into the tile, "I'm so pathetic."

"Happens to the best of us," Lip says, "But you're here now. Might as well pee."

When Ian makes no move, Lip reaches for the waistband of his brother's borrowed pajamas. This seems to spark some life into Ian, though. He swats Lip away and positions himself in front of the urinal, swaying just a little.

Lip takes a few steps back and directs his gaze toward the floor as a way of giving Ian his dignity.

After Ian has finished, Lip keeps his eyes on the floor as he asks, "Gotta do anything else?"

Ian makes some sort of guttural noise that sounds like a negative and shuffles zombielike toward the door. Lip scrambles to hold the door and then follows Ian closely all the way to the room, not helping him this time, but hovering in case he is needed.

Ian does all right, though this seems to sap what miniscule energy he had. Back in the room, he flops back onto the bed and starts oozing back under the covers.

"No," Lip interrupts him, getting ahold of Ian's t-shirt and dragging him back to a half-sit, "Gotta take your meds before you sleep."

Ian is expressionless at this, but he obediently swallows each pill that Lip hands him. Once done, Ian is back under the blankets.

Lip pours himself a proper glass of whiskey, lights another cigarette and sits at his desk for a while, sifting through his school stuff. He's trying to get it into some sort of order that makes sense and gives him a clear path of attack, but for some reason he can't seem to make heads or tails of it. He shoves the books and notes to the back of the desk and pulls out the big pad of paper from under the bed, preparing to draw some sort of visual map of the mess.

He folds back the cover and puzzles for a second at what he finds. It's some sort of weekly schedule in Amanda's handwriting, but none of the many, many events detailed in her scrawl are familiar to Lip. Then he remembers that Amanda had used this pad to draw up Ian's current schedule of commitments in an attempt to figure out when he might be available to take a class or two. This is the first time Lip has actually looked at it.

He frowns at first, looking at all those obligations that practically fill every space of each day. His sense that Ian's been, at best, allowing himself two or three hours of sleep most nights, is confirmed by all these stupid blocks.

But then Lip's frown starts to transform into a smile. He grabs a marker from the cup and crosses out with deeply satisfying black X's all Ian's nights working at the club. Then Lip crosses off the evening hours Ian was responsible for watching Mickey's kid. With a little shrug, he takes away Carl's football games and Ian's corresponding track responsibilities too.

Lip sits back and admires his handiwork. If he squints away all the big black X's, Ian's schedule looks so much lighter. There's plenty of time for a class or two and homework and good nights' sleep. It's kind of perfect, actually.

He props the drawing pad along the wall at the back of the desk, displaying this new, easier tomorrow. It makes Lip feel a hell of a lot better.

Riding this optimism, Lip drains the rest of his drink, cheerfully ignores his abandoned school books and undresses for bed.

Once in bed in the dark again, however, anxiety starts to creep back in. He can rescue Ian from all these external demons and drags in his life, but how the hell does Lip liberate Ian from Ian?

A few drinks later, Lip still doesn't have an answer to silence this fear, and he finds himself still confoundingly edgy when he tries to lie back down. He pops back up like a Jack-in-the-Box and double-checks the locks on the door because that seems like it will solve something, even though he doesn't know what. When he has the sudden urge to drag his desk in front of the door, though, Lip gets it. Or this part of it, anyway—he's afraid that Ian might bolt once Lip has drifted off on guard duty. What if Ian's surprising energy on the way back from the bathroom was no fluke? What if it comes again while Lip's asleep and Ian escapes? How the hell can Lip protect him then?

Without a second thought, Lip climbs into bed beside Ian and wraps an arm over him, the hair-trigger that will alert Lip to any late night flight.

"What're you doing?" Ian mumbles, his voice and the question blessedly normal-sounding in the silence of the room and Lip's logy brain.

"My job," Lip mumbles back.

Content enough at last, he thinks he can finally sleep. He doesn't, however. Instead he lays there fretting until daylight overtakes the dark.

* * *

Lip doesn't think he sleeps, but maybe he sort of does, passes in and out while the daylight is dusting over the room, seeping into his eyes and ears, one grain of sand at a time.

For a moment, Lip believes that Karen is the warm body beside him. He is happy to have her back, happy to be with her once more beneath the el tracks, watching the sparks shoot orange and blue, lighting up the sky. His best memories of her all read like the Fourth of July.

He leans his brow against the back of her head and is so relieved to have a second chance.

All the things he was always so afraid to ask her…he'd never been afraid to say things to anyone—Lip's problem has always been having no sense of when he should  _not_  say something—but he was afraid to say a lot of things to Karen. It always seemed that one wrong move, one wrong thing said, and she'd slip through his hands like water.

Now he has that chance to speak, the nerve to because this time she isn't going anywhere. She won't hate him. She won't be lost.

He tries to move his head to speak, but he feels held, immobilized like there's an entire swimming pool of liquid weighing him down. It doesn't smell like Karen. It smells like sweat, teenage boy sweat, gymnasium sweat.

It's not Karen; it's Ian. That's right.

They must be in the car together, the back seat. Trying to sleep without Fiona for some reason. But someone's driving. Lip can feel the wheels still turning the way he always felt roller skates still on his feet hours after, laying still.

Monica? Or Mandy? Who's driving?

"Tell her not to do it," Lip thinks he says, but he doesn't hear his own voice outside his skull.  _Oh, God._  Tell her not to do it.

But then somehow it's mid-morning. Lip sits up with a start, panting. Ian's scrunched up beside him in the narrow dorm bed. They're both damp with sweat.

"Ian," Lip whispers, nudging him, "Please get up."

"Get away from me," Ian says in a surprisingly forceful voice and shoves Lip off the mattress to the floor.

Lip lands hard and then watches in confusion as Ian sinks back down inside himself, a crumpled mess of sheet and shoulder blades and spine.

Lip lets out an involuntary whimper. His heart is sitting somewhere up at the back of his throat, keeping relentless time with the throbbing behind his ears.

He paws at the nightstand until he finds his cigarettes. First he can't get a single one out of the pack then they all fall out, fanning out across the floor in a firework of failure. He tries to pick up one of them, any of them, but it's impossible. His hands are useless.

Instead, he makes his way to the bottle at the desk but can only stare at it, bewildered. It's empty. Who emptied it?

He glances at Ian, trying to calculate the possibility, but that doesn't seem right at all.

"Fuck," Lip murmurs, sitting hard in the desk chair. The bottle glints in the sunlight, mocking him.

Sprawled out in front of the bottle are Lip's textbooks and notes, a mess of pens and highlighters and post-its.

"Fuck," he murmurs again, burying his hands in his hair.

He looks back at Ian once more, then at the clock on the nightstand. It's after eleven.

Lip stumbles to his feet, falls over himself as he pulls on his jeans from the day before. He throws some of the books blindly into his bag and then freezes, staring at Ian.

Lip surveys the room quickly, drops his book bag and grabs Kuz's nightstand. He hauls it away from the wall and pushes it up against the front of the other nightstand, creating a short barrier beside the bed where Ian is sleeping. A milk crate of Kuz's textbooks follows, then a hamper full of dirty clothes and then both the desk chairs, side by side. Lip stacks Ian's boots on the seat of one of the chairs for good measure, then stands back, gauging his makeshift wall.

It will have to do.

Lip grabs his backpack, lowers his head and leaves the room, locking the door carefully then doubling back a second time to make sure he did it right.

He doesn't head to class, though; he's not sure what day of the week it is or where he's supposed to be. Instead he makes his way to Professor Steigler's office and slumps down on the floor in front of her door to wait for her.

Trying to convince himself that he feels more relaxed than he does, he folds his arms over the top of his knees and rests his chin on his hands. He's gazing at the floor, but that's no good—it's a vinyl composite tile floor with grimy seams. It makes his heart start right back up again.

He's gotta get back to Ian. There's tile squares under Kuz's cheap rug in there too. There's a million things Ian could get into—why has Lip not realized that until now—there's a million things that could happen.

He's on his feet and tromping down the hall when someone calls, "Phillip?"

Lip pivots. Profesor Steigler is approaching him from the other end of the hall, her arms filled with several rubber-banded stacks of paper.

"Were you waiting for me?" she asks.

"Uh, yeah," Lip ducks his head, embarrassed as he lies, "Office hours, right?"

"No, not today."

"Oh," he nods, "Okay. Sorry."

"I have a few minutes, though, if you want to talk now."

"Nah, that's—"

Steigler is already unlocking her office door, though, and standing aside to let him in as she flips on the lights. At a loss for what else to do and, frankly, grateful to have someone guiding him in any capacity, Lip enters the little room and sits in the chair across from her desk.

She bustles around for a moment or two, setting down the stacks of paper, arranging a few things on the desk, removing an accordion folder from the seat of her chair. Then she sits and says brightly, "I don't have a paper from you, do I?"

"Uh, no, no," he confirms, bowing his head again, "No, I…you don't."

"What happened?"

Lip stares down at some strange little blown-glass paperweight thing on her desk and tries to remember the contents of all his drawers back in the dorm room. There's got to be something he's forgotten.

"Phillip?"

He looks up, puzzled to find that she's still here, that he's still here.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Oh," Lip replies, remembering what it is he's supposed to do, "I've been sick. Real sick."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

Lip looks at her, really looks at her for the first time ever. Usually he doesn't bother paying much attention to her because it's not like she's hot. She's middle-aged, matronly. She reminds him of Sheila Jackson a little bit, he realizes now, just something about her hair or her face, her sweater set.

And now he feels guilty for lying.

"I wasn't sick," he says, "I actually…I was almost done with it. I  _am_ almost done with it. I took off work even, to work on the paper, get it done. But shi—stuff kept happenin'."

Her expression is impossible to read; it looks vaguely sympathetic, but plastered on, possibly skeptical.

Lip finds himself retreating into manipulation.

"I'm not like the other kids here," he says, "I'm scholarship, you know? For bein' poor? I mean, where I went to school, they gave you an A for spellin' your name right on the top of your test. This is…this is different for me. I know it's not an excuse—I don't want to make excuses and I don't wanna have special treatment—but I guess I'm still learnin' how to manage all this. It's real hard."

It feels like slipping into a warm bed on a night when the heat's been shut off. This is how he's supposed to talk to people like her.

Encouraged, he launches into rote recitation as if reading from the big, fat Gallagher file at Child Protective Services, "My dad's an alcoholic and a drug addict. Never gave a shit about us unless he could get money off of us to, you know, buy more booze, buy some pills or dope. We lived out of a car for a while, some squats, didn't have a place most of the time. And, you know, he wasn't around much anyway. Neither was our mom. She's bipolar? Like, manic-depressive? Won't take treatment. She was always leavin' us, runnin' off. Showin' up few years later just to hurt us again. Leave us again. There's six of us, six of us kids, and I gotta take care of them all. I mean, my sister, she was in charge for a while, supposed to be in charge, 'cause she was the oldest, but…"

Lip falters for a second, surprised to catch himself starting to wander off script. He glances up at Steigler, but her expression is unchanged. Desperately, Lip tries to return to the script. The problem is, he doesn't remember what the script is supposed to be. So he just keeps talking, eyes fixed on the dumb paperweight again.

"The thing is," he says, eyes tracing the colors, how they intertwine in a way that doesn't seem quite possible, "I can't trust her anymore. She lost it last year…without me there, she lost it. Almost killed our baby brother. He got her coke. You know what that does to a toddler? He didn't die, but…we still don't know how bad it is. Inside his head, you know? He's not really talkin'. He should be talkin'…"

Lip trails off, thinking about that night at the hospital, Liam with all his tubes…He doesn't want anymore fucking hospitals. Never again.

"I can't…I can't ever really leave them," he says, still staring at that paperweight, staring sightlessly now, talking to himself, "Everything just goes wrong when I do. But I'm—I'm supposed to leave them. I'm it; I'm all they've got, and I'm supposed to be up here, savin' everybody."

He smiles bitterly, feeling the walls closing in on him, "I'm the golden goose. Everybody's been tellin' me that since I was five years old. You're the one who's gonna make it. You're the one who's gonna get us out. Save 'em all. 'Cause, you know, I got lucky. I got what they all wanted, and I gotta use it for them. If I fuck up, that's it. We all go down. So I can't fuck up. That's…that's my job. I gotta be smart and save everybody, but…but, I'm fucked if I know how. I can't even save a fuckin' paper, get three good hours to work without somethin' else happenin'…I am fucking up. I'm fucking up. I'm fucking  _up_."

He looks up at her and asks, "But what am I supposed to do?"

Lip can't see what Steigler's expression is anymore—his eyes are all blurry—but it doesn't matter. He shakes his head and looks down at his hands, which seem blurry too.

"I mean, I can't just leave them. Stuff keeps happenin' and I can't just trust Fiona to take care of it 'cause she can't. She can't even pay the rent. Can't keep the kids in the house. They're out all night, runnin' around, out there in the world…that's not safe. Carl—he's gonna end up in jail or joinin' a fuckin' gang, gettin' shot or somethin' or joinin' the fuckin' Army, gettin' shot and crippled legitimate, or killed. And I don't what to do 'cause he doesn't listen to me, never has. He looks up to Ian, to Mickey…the hell kind of role models are they for him? It's gonna happen. I can tell. And I can't stop it…"

"Phillip?"

"And, Debbie," he continues, his voice wobbling, "She's  _just_  like Ian. Out there lookin' for anybody to love her, just askin' everybody to hurt her, every fuckin' predator and vulture out there…It's Ian all over again."

Lip's chest is painfully tight, his heart thumping up in his ears again, and he can't seem to swallow or take a breath, but he also can't seem to stop talking.

"People did terrible things to him…I shoulda known, but I didn't. I didn't notice. I didn't know, and then when I did, I didn't do anything to stop it, or just told myself it wasn't true. And now…there's somethin' wrong with him, and it's more than just the bipolar. It's somethin' else, and I don't know what to do. He's doin' terrible things to himself, like he doesn't care, like it doesn't matter…and I don't know how to fix it. Got all these brains, right? All this luck? I'm the one who got everything, and I'm supposed to do somethin' with that. I'm supposed to save him, and I don't know how to do that. I just…I want to go back. That's all I can think of. We gotta go back to before it all happened and stop it—slingshot around the sun, use a Delorean, whatever, but we gotta get back to where I screwed up so I can fix it…"

"Phillip? Phillip, stop."

He's panting, but he manages to look up at her.

"Phillip, I'd like you to come see a colleague of mine, okay? Would that be all right? She's just in the next building."

There's a delay before he registers what she's said, but he nods, too confused and exhausted to not just agree with anything she says at this point.

Steigler gets up from the desk, puts a hand briefly on Lip's shoulder as he stands then she guides him out the door and down the hall. They reach the end, turn a corner and enter one of the glassed-in walkways that connect several of the buildings on campus. Lip follows blindly. His head is all cloudy and his heart is still pounding, his lungs sore. It feels good to move his legs like this, to be directed where to go, to not have do any thinking anymore.

They pass by University Health Services and the campus pharmacy before they enter another department through a back door, skipping the lobby and heading straight into a windowless hall of small offices.

"Just wait here one moment," Steigler instructs him.

She knocks on one of the doors and then disappears inside while Lip waits, staring with complete disinterest at the row of doors. They've all got what looks like fans or humidifiers sitting on the floor in front of each door. This detail catches Lip's attention, and he squats down to have a look at one. It's a white noise machine. That seems very strange. Whatever department this professor works in must be very serious about confidentiality. Cryptography, maybe? Or maybe this is where they handled all the patents.

"All right," Steigler says, further befuddling Lip who hasn't heard her come back out, "Jan can see you now.

"Okay," Lip nods.

He allows Steigler to guide him once more. In the tiny room, Lip shakes hands with a big woman in a tunic with some chunky, African-tribal-looking jewelry. She smiles warmly at him and Lip smiles back, only because it seems like he is supposed to.

"All right, Phillip," Steigler says, putting her hand on his shoulder again and guiding him down into one of the two armchairs that face each other, "You can talk to Jan here, and she can help you. Feel free to talk about all the things you were telling me. This is a safe space."

"Okay," Lip replies stupidly, uncertain why Steigler is leaving, why she's even brought him here to tell this strange professor he's never seen before why he didn't get his paper in on time.

"Uh," Lip says, addressing Steigler but gesturing toward this Jan woman, "Will I get an extension on my paper if I talk to her?"

"Oh," Steigler seems slightly surprised by the question, "Just turn in your paper when you're able to."

"All right," Lip sits awkwardly as Steigler leaves and Jan continues to smile at him from the other armchair.

Jan reaches over to a small table and hands Lip a box of Kleenex, which puzzles him until he realizes that his face is all wet. As he mops himself up, she asks, "Feel better?"

He doesn't answer because it seems like a stupid question, but there's something reassuring about her asking him this, it feels almost maternal.

"Sounds like you're dealing with a lot of stress," she says.

He notices he's jiggling his knee. He tries to stop doing it, but he can't.

"Would you like to start by telling me some of the things you were telling Dr. Steigler? She says you're very worried about your family."

"What?" Lip asks, looking up from his knee.

"Tell me about your family, Phillip. Tell me what's going on."

He exhales a jittery breath and knots his hands together. Apparently he's got to jump through hoops again. This is idiotic when he needs to get back to Ian, but Lip is so thoroughly confused at this point, that he's not even sure what it would mean if he just upped and left this strange professor's office.

So he starts talking, telling her in halted chunks and phrases everything he just told to Steigler. He forgets, though, to be annoyed at some point because they're something about this woman, something about this room, which is soothing. He feels a little warm and drunk here, less unhinged as he recounts his family situation for her. Why is that?

He stops mid-monologue and asks her, "What department do you work for?"

"CPS," she replies, appearing surprised that he doesn't know this.

"Chicago Public Schools?" Lip asks, confused.

"Counseling and Psychological Services."

Lip sits back in the chair, all of these strange details making sense now. But it actually makes no sense at all, because there's no reason for Lip to be at Counseling and Psychological Services, speaking to a woman he now realizes is not a professor at all but a therapist or a counselor of some sort.

"Why am I here?" he asks.

Jan laughs and sets down her mug of tea. "That's for you to tell me."

* * *

Lip feels weird and shaky by the time he makes his way back to his dorm. He pauses, noting that he has no recollection of having walked over here, what path he took from Counseling Services, anything he saw along the way. He shakes this concern off, though, too weak to bother worrying about it. He feels like his innards have been scooped and scraped and eaten, grapefruit-style.

Outside the door to his room, however, he takes a moment to try and gather some kind of reserve. Ian's going to be in there, the same hopeless lump Lip left a couple hours earlier. And it's time for Lip to do something about that. Christ, he doesn't want to make those calls, though.

Lip lets himself into the dark room and does his best to take off his outerwear and boots without snapping on the overhead light. He tells himself this is because he doesn't want to disturb Ian, though, honestly, how disturbable could Ian be at this point? Lip knows it's really because he just can't stand to see him like that right now. He just needs a goddamn minute before he has to face that.

When Lip turns away from the closet toward the room proper, however, he startles at the sight of a tiny orange glow, floating in the black air.

Lip stares at the tiny glow for a second, brain unable to process it and match it to anything sensible, before his body jerks into action and he starts slapping for the light switch.

The fluorescent comes on overhead and Lip quickly tries to cover the evidence of his panic. Ian is sitting on the edge of the bed, smoking a cigarette.

"So fucking bright," Ian mutters, shading his eyes with his free hand.

"You're up."

Ian grunts, and Lip sits gingerly across from him on the other bed. All the crap and furniture is still piled around Ian's bed, though Ian's cleared a small path through it. A wave of embarrassment comes over Lip as he looks at it all.

"How you feelin'?" Lip asks.

"What do you think?"

"Shitty?"

"Mmm."

"Glad to see you up," Lip says, unable to disguise his relief. He reaches for Ian's cigarette and takes a deep, grateful drag before he hands it back and speaks again.

"I was worried you were—" he begins, then course corrects and says instead, "Drugs must be doin'  _somethin'_  for you then, huh? Down but not out? Little funk instead of a long one?"

"I guess. I don't know."

Lip offers Ian a small, encouraging smile, but doesn't get anything in return. It's okay, though. Ian's up and around and talking again, no doctors or new treatments or extraordinary interventions necessary. Small victories are still victories.

"What's with all this shit?" Ian asks, "This room is a mess."

"Sorry about that."

"And how come you don't have a TV?"

"Huh?"

"Rooms on both sides have got TVs," Ian says gesturing toward each of Lip's neighbors' walls, "I could hear them. Upstairs too. You the only guy in this place hasn't got a TV?"

Lip is puzzled by this turn in the conversation, but he attempts to keep up with it. "Kuz had one," he says, "But he took it over to his girlfriend's place. Said hers was too shitty."

Ian seems to accept this. He exhales, though and whispers to himself, almost as if he's thinking out loud, "You should have what everybody else has."

"When the hell would I even have time to watch TV?" Lip asks.

Ian doesn't say anything to that. He seems a bit out of it still, like Lip can see his disconnection.

Then Ian looks at him dead on for the first time since Lip came in and asks, "You all right?"

"I'm fine," Lip replies out of reflex.

"What's wrong with you?" Ian asks, leaning into the space between the two beds for a better look.

Lip's instinct is to get defensive and to start denying immediately, but Ian has locked eyes with him now, and Lip feels like a puppy caught peeing on the rug. There's no point in lying to him. All of that hollowed-out, exhaustion from earlier overtakes Lip once more. He simply doesn't have the energy to fight any of this right now.

"I don't know," Lip admits, "But somethin' really weird just happened."

"What?"

Lip shakes his head and takes the cigarette again, takes a steadying drag. "Went to go grovel for an extension. Paper that was due yesterday. Just fuckin' didn't finish it."

"Cause of me?"

"Cause of a lot of things. Anyway, I went in there, ready to tell my sob story," here Lip shifts into a cartoony version of his voice, exaggerating his working class accent, "Aw, please, got so much on my plate, this whole college thing is so new to me…Poor little scholarship kid stuff, you know?"

Ian nods and passes Lip the ashtray, Lip only noticing now how long the ash has gotten on the end of his cigarette. As Lip taps the ash into the tray, Ian asks, "So what happened?"

"Started tellin' her the fuckin' truth."

Ian's eyebrows rise.

Lip shakes his head in wonder at the memory, "Then it was like I couldn't stop. I started tellin' her  _everything_. 'Bout you. 'Bout Fiona. And Liam. And Debbie and Carl. Frank and Monica…my goddamned gifted and talented assessment in kindergarten…"

Lip meets Ian's eyes again and says, "Next thing I know, she's walking me down to some other lady in some other office and leavin' me there to tell her the same thing 'in a safe space.'"

Recognition blooms across Ian's face in a grin. "You went to fucking therapy," Ian says.

"Yeah. I didn't even know it."

Ian is still grinning, but he leans back onto his elbows now as he marvels, "Holy shit."

Lip finds himself smiling back and then he laughs, "Think I'm losin' my mind."

Ian snorts, "Must be contagious."

The joy Lip feels seeing his brother smiling, joking around with him again, makes a lot of the things that have felt wrong for so long feel a little bit more right again. At the same time, sleepiness climbs up Lip's backbone, pulling him down. It seems like, for the first time in months, he could lie down and just sleep if he wanted to, nagging thoughts and worries and bad dreams and memories dampened down almost to mute now.

But then Ian steals the last drag off the cigarette, stubs it out and sits forward once more, antsy.

"I gotta get home," Ian declares.

"Why?" Lip asks with a sharp edge to his voice as he sees that glimpse of happy rightness being snatched away once more, "What the hell's there for you?"

Ian runs a hand through his hair and just repeats, "I gotta get home."

Lip watches helplessly as Ian stands up and drags his jeans out from the pile of his stuff in the corner, begins changing out of Lip's too-short pajama pants.

"Well, lemme drive you," Lip offers desperately. The idea of being alone right now, of having been given his brother back but then having him gone once more that quickly, is making Lip feel nauseous; his whole body has gone clammy.

Ian appears to be searching for a shirt to go with his jeans, confused at not finding one. He doesn't look back as he continues rummaging through his bag and asks, "You got Amanda's car?"

"Yeah," Lip assures him, even though he hasn't asked Amanda about borrowing her car tonight. She said he could use it for Ian if he needed to. Lip's got a set of keys. She'll never miss it. Her daddy paid sixty grand for that car and it mostly just sits parked all week long.

"Suit yourself," Ian says, and it feels like a temporary stay of Lip's execution.

* * *

The beamer is silent on the ride down. Lip's still rattled from his experience at Counseling Services, as well as the rest of this very long, trying couple of days, all kinds of strange sensations tumbling over each other in his stomach. Ian seems lost in his own headspace as well. The lights of the expressway flicker over them in Morse code patterns, but neither of them bothers to try and translate it.

At the house, Ian tosses Lip a puzzled look when he gets out of the car and starts following Ian in.

"Need to pee," Lip lies.

Lip keeps up the façade, heading directly for the bathroom when they enter the house. Alone in the little room, Lip glares at himself in the cracked mirror, then sits on the edge of the tub and takes out his phone. He texts Fiona:

_Ian's up. All good._

It's only half a minute before she responds:

_Great!_

Lip makes a grotesque fake smile as he reads her message. "Great!" he says to the toilet, "Everything's  _great_!"

He tucks the phone back into his pocket, disgusted with himself. He finds his gaze drawn to the wall of tile, gleaming new, beautifully constructed, especially considering their surroundings. He runs a finger along one of the grout lines and remembers what a good time they'd had putting this up. It was just a few weeks ago, but it seems like another lifetime has passed.

He smiles, genuinely this time, thinking about Ian and his compass.

Then Lip climbs to his feet. Might as well go say goodbye.

He finds Ian in the bedroom, sitting cross-legged on the bed. He's got something in his hands that he's frowning over, but Lip can't tell what it is.

"You leaving?" Ian asks without looking up.

"I guess."

"Okay."

But Lip doesn't leave. Something tells him that he shouldn't pull himself away just yet. This instinct is justified when Ian starts talking, as if he too doesn't quite want Lip to go.

"Mickey's been calling," Ian says, "Texting."

"That's good, right?"

Ian shrugs.

"You don't want him to come back?" Lip asks, doing his best to mask the eager optimism that has suddenly begun to bud.

"I dunno." Ian tucks whatever it was he has been holding into a cubby in the headboard and puts his hand in his hair again. It's a greasy mess at this point, making him look that much more harried, despite his defeated demeanor.

Ian starts to say something, stops himself, then looks up at Lip and says, "I think I kinda wanted him to go. Think part of me did all this shit on purpose."

"You want out?"

"No," Ian says quickly, then amends this, "I dunno."

"You don't have t—" Lip begins, but Ian interrupts him.

"I want  _him_  out. If—if he wants to. I want him to know that he  _can_  get out. He didn't sign up for this."

"Kinda did, actually. Literally. Signed some documents about that at City Hall, right?"

Ian scowls. Then he grits his teeth, angry at someone, though it doesn't seem like he's angry at Lip.

"I didn't even think Mickey would care about what I was doing," Ian mutters, "Never thought I was hurting him."

"You knew he'd care. Wouldn't have kept it a secret if you didn't."

"I know," Ian agrees sadly, "What the fuck's wrong with me?"

Lip sighs and digs his hands into his coat pockets. He doesn't want to be the one to say this, but there sure isn't anyone else stepping up to do the job.

"Maybe you're not ready to be do or die yet," Lip offers, "Maybe you need to just figure yourself out for a while first."

Ian looks so crushed at this suggestion, though. Lip immediately tries to right it, even if it goes against all of his better judgment.

"He's been callin' about you," Lip says, "Checkin' up. Askin' us all how you're doin', makin' sure you're all right. He still gives a shit, for what it's worth. Don't think you torpedoed everything."

This does not get the expected response out of Ian at all, however. His face darkens and he stands up, agitated.

"He just does that 'cause he feels responsible," Ian says. Seeming to be at a loss for something to do with his ire, Ian begins making the bed, yanking the sheets and coverlet with overly forceful, angry jerks, throwing the pillows against the headboard. Lip's never seen anyone make a bed so vehemently before, folding in goddamn hospital corners like he probably learned at boot camp.

"I'm like some fucking handicapped old grandmother to him," Ian spits.

Lip has shrunken back instinctively from this display, but Ian tosses one of the pillows a bit too hard and it tumbles over the side of the bed. Lip reaches for it, cautiously attempting to help.

Ian watches Lip set the pillow in its proper place and give it an idiotic pat for good measure.

Then Ian's shoulders fall as he looks to Lip helplessly and says, "I swear to god, I'm gonna go on a rampage if everybody doesn't stop worrying about me. I can't fucking breathe anymore."

Lip doesn't know what to say to this. Half a dozen options spring to mind, but none of them seems like anything that isn't going to further piss Ian off.

But Ian's eyes drift down from Lip to the bed and rest there a moment. Lip can almost see Ian's irritation ratcheting down to some kind of tired frustration.

"He tells me he's proud of me," Ian says, not lifting his eyes, "All the time. He never used to, before. He didn't have to. I just knew he was. I knew he was proud that I was fucking fast and smart, good at shit. He liked the way I looked, that I was gonna be joining up, gonna be an officer. He didn't want me to go, but he was proud, I could tell. The way he used to look at me…"

Ian trails off, his gaze far away, lingering for a moment. Then he snaps back and says bitterly, "Now he's proud all the time. Proud of me for showing up to work, getting out of bed, taking my meds…"

Ian switches into a spot-on Mickey impersonation 'Proud 'o you. Real proud o' ya for doin' this, you know.' Fuck. I'm one step better than Yevgeny lifting his head. Such a big boy, Ian, such a big boy…"

Out in the living room, somebody stomps up from the basement and turns the TV on. It makes Lip nervous, reminded that there are other people in this house, but Ian doesn't even seem to notice the voices and music blaring through the paper-thin walls. He sits on the bed again and scowls.

"He's never gonna leave me."

"Everybody leaves."

"Mickey doesn't."

Lip contains his eye roll as he asks, "Oh, yeah? Where's he now?"

"Trying to come back. Even that—even what I did. Lying. The stuff at the club. Disrespecting him. Not even thinking about him, just thinking about me and what I wanted. Even that only made him mad enough for a day. He'll forgive me for anything 'cause he thinks I'm just this sick idiot who doesn't know any better, who can't help it. "

"Well—" Lip begins, but Ian continues on, apparently needing to speak tonight more than he cares to listen.

"Crazy, sick Ian…I knew what I was doing, Lip. I didn't do that in some…manic state, or something. I did it 'cause I liked it, 'cause I wanted to. I wanted to feel like me again."

Lip's stomach turns at the thought of this. "How's that you, Ian? Jesus."

"Closest I'm gonna get. Nobody there is gonna tell me how great I am for just showing up. They just expect me to. They expect me to show up looking like I work out eight hours a day. They expect me to be perfect 'cause why the fuck wouldn't I be?"

"That's not fair," Lip snaps, "What do you want from everybody? You want us to care or not care?"

"I don't want anything," Ian says quietly, "There's nothing I want that I can have."

"Yeah, poor you. People just love you too much. Boo-fuckin-hoo."

Ian ignores that, lost in his own thoughts again then he asks, "What would've happened if I hadn't come back? If when I left, I never came back?"

"Ian, don't—"

"I'm not talking about suicide," Ian says almost smarmily, "I'm talking about if I when I left the Army, I'd gone somewhere else instead of back here. What if I went somewhere else and never came back? Life went on without me, right? Nobody missed me."

"We all missed you."

"Yeah, but, you got over it. Not like it stopped anybody from living their lives."

"Did you want it to?"

"No. Of course not."

"So, what are you talkin' about?"

"Nothing," Ian says, clearly tucking his thoughts away and switching gears, "I'm just being crazy."

They remain in silence for a bit, the television filling in the gaps with loud explosions and a booming announcer's voice.

Then Ian says, seemingly out of nowhere, "He got married for me. Signed away his life. He did that so he could take care of me. He does everything for me. Everything's about me. He doesn't do anything for him."

"Practically Mother Theresa, huh?"

"He gets nothing from me. Mickey deserves more than nothing."

"Come on. It's not like Mickey's givin' up some fabulous future to be with you. You're probably the best thing that was ever gonna happen to him, anyway."

Ian shakes his head. "Mickey could have a lot more. But he thinks exactly like you. I want him to see that there's other stuff out there. Other lives. He needs to know what he's missing."

Lip takes a deep breath and asks, "We talkin' about divorce here? Breakin' things up?"

"No," Ian says quickly before he steps back on it, "I don't know. No."

"Then what do you want?"

Ian looks miserable as he shrugs, but then says something it seems clear he's put a bit of thought into, "Svetlana's thing that she's doing? And Mickey's job for his uncle? That could take 'til Christmas if they see it out. I think…I think I wanna ask Mickey to do it. Then we talk when he's done. A month or six weeks or whatever without having to deal with my shit? He should see what that's like."

Ian looks up at Lip, wearing an expression Lip hasn't seen in ages—he's seeking Lip's approval.

"You think that's just a dumb idea?" Ian asks, "Think that's the crazy talking?"

"Think that's the best idea you've had in a year."

"You don't have to call him tonight, though," Lip says, his brotherly instinct kicking in. Ian needs a night off. They both need a night off. "Talk to him about it tomorrow. Just relax for a little bit tonight, okay?"

Ian appears to acquiesce to this suggestion. Then, to Lip's surprise, Ian gets down on his knees and starts wriggling the upper half of his body under the bed.

Lip bends down and peers into the darkness down there.

"You hiding?" Lip asks.

Ian grunts an unintelligible response, and Lip can hear him pushing junk around, searching for something. Then he's back up again and walking around the bed to Lip. There's a colossal dust bunny clinging to Ian's hair, but he looks satisfied.

"Here," Ian says, depositing a shoebox into Lip's hands, "Give this to Fiona. It's the last of it."

Lip lifts the top off the box and finds it nearly full with wads of cash, some of it in rolls, some of it in stacks, part of it clearly counted and separated, the rest of it just dumped in there haphazardly.

Ian reaches into the pocket of his jeans and pulls out still more cash, lays that on top.

"Should be almost four grand," Ian says.

Lip continues to stare at the box of cash. He could swear it still smells like sweat. "You been busy," he remarks.

"People like me a lot," Ian shrugs, "They overpay."

"There's some more in your backpack," Lip finds himself saying, "Found it when I was lookin' for your meds."

"Oh." Ian dutifully hauls his bag up from the floor, locates the last wad of tainted cash and tucks it into the box.

"You sure you want me to give all of this to Fiona?" Lip asks, "Could buy some pretty nice shit with this."

Ian shakes his head. "I don't want it here anymore. I don't ever wanna see it again."

Lip nods and slips the lid back onto the box, puts the whole thing under his arm. It doesn't feel good, though. It's a heavy, physical reminder of too many things Lip would rather not think about. Just having it here makes everything seem topsy-turvy again.

Ian sits awkwardly on the edge of the made bad and looks lost. Lip knows it's time to go, that there aren't any more excuses for sticking around here, but he can't bring himself to leave Ian alone like this. Then inspiration strikes.

"Hey," Lip says, forcing his voice to be cheerful, "How bout you get some stuff together and come stay with me a while? Camp out?"

"I'm not gonna off myself," Ian says drily, "Promise."

"Yeah, but what if I do?"

Ian makes a face at him.

"Serious," Lip says, "Think my professor really thought I was gonna walk out of there and jump off the Physics building."

Ian smiles but says, "Wouldn't be the first Poly student who did."

"Come on," Lip says, keen to change the subject back, "Kuz is practically living over at his girlfriend's place. I haven't even seen him in a week. Nobody would give a fuck if you hung out."

"I can't just go away."

"Why? What's here for you? Russian whores? They can't be better company than I am. Well, I mean, obviously they can in some ways, but bet I offer superior conversation skills."

Ian sniffs a little laugh at this, but shakes his head. "I gotta go to work tomorrow. Get back to my life."

"Nothing sayin' you can't go to work tomorrow. Just sleep there instead of here. Come on. It'll be like old times. You and me, tiny fuckin' room. Twin beds. Better pot this time around, though. Better food, too. Free."

Ian is reluctant, but Lip can see that he's not entirely resistant.

"It'll be like we're sixteen again," Lip says, pushing while the getting is good, "Like none of this other shit ever happened."

Ian smooths down a wrinkle in the coverlet and lingers wistfully over the empty bed. "I hate sleeping here alone," he admits.

"Then don't," Lip says, finding his bossiness has come back to him with reassuring strength, "Get your shit together, and let's go. You gotta have a suitcase or somethin' around here…"

Lip starts kicking his way through the mess of junk on the floor while Ian watches him warily. After a moment of Lip playacting like he knows what he's doing, like he has any idea at all of what he's looking for, Ian finally relents and goes to the closet. He produces that godforsaken kit bag from the Army and starts dumping clothes into it.

"You need help?" Lip asks, trying not to show just how giddy he is at this development.

"Nah, I'll just be a few minutes. Go get a beer if you want."

"Just might do that."

Lip keeps the shoebox under his arm and struts out of the bedroom, pleased as can be. He's practically sauntering as he heads into the kitchen, throws open the fridge door and plucks up a beer.

As he leans back against the counter and cracks the Coors open, he realizes that he's not alone. That Milkovich cousin—the little, reedy one whose head Lip bashed into the wall a couple days earlier—is standing in the living room, watching Lip with bug eyes.

"What's up?" Lip nods, taking a sip with relish.

"Nothing," the Milkovich mutters, quickly becoming busy with a pile of crap on the coffee table.

"That's right," Lip murmurs to himself cockily. He throws open the fridge door once more and appraises the contents. Aside from the beer, there are take-out containers, a half-full baby bottle that he can smell from here has gone rank, a lot of wilted salad greens, a rolled up bag of baby carrots, and a jar of protein powder. Lip decides that one of the first things he's going to do as soon as Ian's out of this dump is get him to start eating like a normal eighteen-year-old dude again.

Ian emerges from the bedroom, kit bag over his shoulder. He acknowledges the Milkovich with a quiet, "Oh, hey."

"I gotta go," the Milkovich says, grabbing a coat from the couch and hustling the hell out of there.

The Gallaghers watch this with bemusement. After the guy has gone, Lip takes a long sip of beer and asks, "He one of Mickey's cousins? Or he a brother?"

"Cousin," Ian answers, "Felipe."

" _Felipe_  Milkovich?"

Ian gives him a half smile and gestures for Lip to share the beer with him. Lip does so and Ian takes a sip before explaining, "His mother was Mexican."

"Was?" Lip laughs, "What—did she convert?"

"She's dead."

"Oh." Lip is chastised momentarily and sips his beer without any more smart remarks while Ian grabs the baby carrots from the fridge. He pops one in his mouth and starts to chew then makes a disgusted face and spits it out into the sink. He claws at his tongue with a paper napkin and washes the half-chewed carrot down the drain. He dumps the rest of the spoiled carrots in the garbage.

"What's with all the Milkovich women being dead or missing?" Lip asks as Ian starts taking out all his produce from the fridge and dropping it in the trash.

"It's a hard life," Ian replies, snatching the beer can once more from Lip and taking several palette-cleansing gulps.

Then Ian gives the beer back to Lip and looks at him expectantly.

"What?" Lip asks after a pause.

"You gonna ask me about Mandy?"

"Wasn't plannin' on it."

But now Mandy is everywhere around them. Lip can almost smell her hair, that strange mix of cigarette smoke, Suave shampoo and mango body splash. He gets the distinct impression that were he to turn ever so slightly, he'd see her standing there, weight on one hip, just out of his peripheral vision.

"You know where she is?" Lip asks.

"Got an idea. Don't know for sure, though."

"Mmm." Lip hazards a glance to the side, but of course Mandy isn't there. He spies something else, though, and once more wrests control of the situation.

"Why don't you take that TV?" Lip suggests, nodding toward the shiny flatscreen in the living room, "Should get something in the divorce."

"We're not—" Ian starts to say, but then cuts himself off, looking away from Lip and toward the television.

"You paid for it, right? Not like Mickey was making big bucks sellin' coke to high school kids and handwhores to guys in this neighborhood."

"Nobody paid for it."

"Well, there you go. Finders keepers."

"I'm not stealing the TV," Ian says, shaking his head.

"Just takin' it for a little walk," Lip says, repeating a line Frank used to give them all the time when they were little, right before he pawned one of their bikes or the microwave to buy drugs.

And that gets a genuine laugh out of Ian. It's always been the most satisfying sound. It fills Lip's heart with warmth.

Lip reaches up, puts his arm over Ian's shoulder and pulls him down to Lip's level.

"Come on, knucklehead," Lip says, leading him over to the TV, "We're gonna go camping in style."

* * *

That night, Lip lies in Kuz's bed, listening to Ian snoring peacefully on the other side of the room. It's like a lullaby to Lip's ears. No need for a Delorean or a slingshot around the sun at all—somehow they've managed to go back and now the pieces are all falling together. They're gonna be able to fix this. Everything can be fixed.

Despite the exhaustion they were both feeling, they had a fun night once they got back to the dorm. They set up the TV—enormous in the tiny space—shared a half a joint, and giggled over  _Squidbillies_  and  _Robot Chicken_  for a couple hours. The outside world seemed very far away, and that was just about perfect as far as Lip is concerned.

He heaves a deep breath, his mind tripping along over the scattered memories of this strange day. So much of it feels like a dream now, the anxiety still lingering, but the details increasingly fuzzy. Ian's back. In every almost every way that Lip could want, Ian's back, and that's an incredible relief. There's still so much to deal with, so much to fix, but right now it feels a lot more do-able.

But Lip finds his mind slipping back repeatedly to how he felt after he left Counseling Services today, reamed out but, oddly, kind of good. It was like some tiny little demon—one of millions who've set up residence in his belly no doubt—had been exorcised. The idea occurs to Lip that he might like to go back sometime, talk to that lady again, about some other stuff, stuff he just can't seem to stop thinking about.

Then he laughs at himself and decides he'll find this idea absurd come morning. Surely it's the exhaustion and the pot talking. Gallaghers don't do therapy. At least, not the ones who don't need it.

Fuck it all. Lip built a time machine and got his brother back, and tonight he is a champion. He will save them all.


	8. Rumspringa

"That what you're wearin'?" Lip asked.

Ian glanced down at his clothes. He was wearing a grubby old t-shirt that had belonged to Lip previously, and one of those flannel shirts Ian was so fond of that always seemed to make him look like a walking pile of laundry, acting like camouflage in the Gallagher house. Half the time Lip would walk into a room and not even notice Ian was there, he blended into the mess so well.

"What's wrong with this?" Ian asked, "It's clean."

"There's gonna be girls at this party, not just a bunch of dudes and an X-box."

"So?" Ian replied, and Lip felt the gulf between twelve and thirteen acutely.

"Suit yourself," Lip said, and went back to the bathroom to once more assure himself that his hair was mussed just so.

Ian followed him, nervous now, even though he tried to hide it, and fussed over his hair as well. It was a hopeless case, though. Fiona was still cutting his hair like she'd always done, and Ian was too dumb to realize that he was way too old to be letting her do this; his hair looked like it was getting trimmed with a weed whacker. It was high time Ian started scrounging up seven bucks for Fantastic Sam's; Lip was starting to become embarrassed to be seen with him.

"Give it up," Lip advised as Ian frowned at his reflection, "Even if your hair looked great, you'd still have your face to deal with."

Ian shoved him, and Lip shoved him back then they headed out to La'Von Harper's party.

As they headed down the stairs to the Harpers' basement rec room, Lip could see the importance of girls being at the party dawning on Ian, his posture growing more stiff and awkward the deeper the two Gallaghers ventured into the room.

"Might get your first kiss today," Lip hissed in Ian's ear, taking great delight in the wan smile that answered him back.

Lip made his way over to the snacks, and Ian followed him like a puppy. Lip would've been annoyed at the clinginess except for the fact that it was making Lip feel more calm by contrast. Lip was wondering if he might be nabbing his own first kiss tonight too, and the thought made his stomach fluttery. He'd never in a million years reveal this fact, though, not even to Ian.

Lip was pleased to find that there was alcohol—girl-friendly stuff, but still. He grabbed a Mike's for himself and one for Ian and then they slunk back together to find a bit of wall to lean against.

Ian opened both caps with his Swiss army knife and they sipped their lemonades, watching the room in silence. There were more guys than girls at the party, and Lip was puzzled, trying to figure out how this would work. As far as Lip could tell, nobody here who'd been invited was part of a couple—but if the girls were just supposed to pick a guy to make out with, Lip was pretty certain he'd be going home empty-handed (empty-mouthed?). He'd only been invited to this party in the first place because he'd done a bunch of math homework for La'Von. It wasn't like Lip had any friends at school, not really, certainly no friends who didn't use him for grades. The only friend Lip really had was Ian, and he was a Seventh Grader—the only one at this party—and it didn't really count as your friend if he was your brother, right? And anyway, standing next to Ian made Lip feel even shorter than he already knew he looked.

"Move over," Lip said, shoving Ian to the side so that he had to slouch a little to accommodate the ceiling duct. That was better.

They drank there pensively for a while, both of them too nervous to talk. Then to Lip's horror, a couple of guys came down the stairs, chatting, and waved Ian over when they saw him. They'd played on the basketball team together that one season before the school lost the funding for it—Julio Casimiro, Jason Ford, and Roger Spikey—Lip remembered all of them from watching Ian's games from the bleachers.

Ian didn't even give Lip a sympathetic glance, just ditched him to go talk to his friends. Traitor.

Immediately, Lip started looking for an out, time ticking down slowly in his head every second he remained there standing alone. Then he spotted La'Von, and it was the best he could do.

"Hey," Lip said, as casually as he could mange, sidling up to La'Von and his friends.

"Oh. Hey, Gallagher," La'Von said, not exactly unfriendly, but not terribly excited to see him either.

"How's your  _dad_?" one of La'Von's friends asked Lip, smirking, "Haven't seen him sleeping in front of JJ Peppers lately."

"Yeah," Lip replied, giving them a patronizing smile, "Haven't seen him either."

They continued talking as if Lip wasn't there, but he hung beside them awkwardly anyway with a plastered-on smile, feigning interest in the jokes he didn't get. He hazarded a glance at Ian on the other side of the room. Ian was just finishing up saying something funny and Lip watched as Roger and Jason cracked up.

"So, uh, how's this work?" Lip asked La'Von, butting in once more.

"How's what work?"

"With the, uh…" Lip lowered his voice almost to a whisper, "the girls."

La'Von grinned, "Aw, Gallagher, you're hornier than I thought."

"Pretty horny for a faggot," his friend muttered, making the other friend snort.

Lip ignored them and was relieved to see that La'Von did too. Instead he leaned down to Lip and said, "Pin the tail."

"Like on the donkey?"

"You'll see." Still leaning down, La'Von asked him in a conspiratorial whisper, "Who you temptin' on?"

Lip surveyed the group, trying to be strategic, but uncertain what the goal should even be. As he was worrying about this, his eyes landed on a blonde head. Karen. Johnson? Jackson? Jackson. She was in the girls' gym class that used the basketball court immediately following Lip's gym class. They'd cross path sometimes, the girls streaming out from one locker room to the court as the boys headed from the court to the other locker room, sweaty and shoving each other.

Mickey Milkovich had called her 'ice queen' once, but Lip had misheard him at first, thinking he said 'ice cream.' Lip realized his mistake right away, but the name had stuck in his head anyway. Every once in a while when he'd notice her, he'd think  _ice cream_. Her skin was like a fresh scoop of vanilla, her lips the cherry. She was pretty the ways girls on commercials were, not like the pimply, shiny girls at school were.

"Awww," La'Von cackled, seeing where Lip's attention had gotten stuck, "All right, all right. We can make that happen."

Lip felt himself flush, and did his best to be invisible while remaining firmly planted near La'Von while everybody got progressively louder and more drunk. Lip peeked over at Ian occasionally, but each time, Ian seemed to be more at ease and entertained by his friends, finally standing there with his back to the girls, as if they weren't the whole reason he was here.

Finally, La'Von and his friends sauntered over to the girls and things devolved into flirty horseplay, lots of giggling and girl screeches. Lip watched, standing solo but no longer feeling self-conscious because a lot of the guys were just standing there, gaping.

Then Lip understood what La'Von meant about 'pin the tail.' After some awkward negotiating and more giggling and a little bit of sloppy shoving, a blindfold was produced. The boys formed an uneven circle while the girls grouped together in the middle, laughing. One of the girls got blindfolded by the other girls, then everybody laughed as La'Von started spinning her bodily round and round until giving her a shove. She stumbled dizzily toward the boys, reaching out her arms as a guide.

The whole room hollered as she connected with Dave Lopez. When her blindfold was removed, the two of them were directed to the closet to make out while kids shouted out stuff drunkenly, and one of the guys timed them on his phone.

Lip did some quick calculations, counting heads, while they all waited. Clearly, there were going to be guys who didn't get to make out. It was going to be the luck of the draw who did and who didn't.

At least Ian wouldn't mind if he didn't get picked, Lip thought, glancing over at him. He still had his back to the spectacle, listening to Roger talk. Lip wasn't even sure now what the point in bringing him had been.

Lip was distracted from this thought as one of La'Von's friends yanked open the closet door, revealing the couple mid-kiss and everybody screamed with laughter. Red-faced, Dave and the girl dragged themselves back to the party.

It was all kind of a blur after that. Lip drank another hard lemonade and watched as various girls stumbled into various guys and headed for the closet. He was growing kind of bored with it and more than a little tipsy, when he looked up to see Kelsie Szostek stumble into Ian from behind. Ian was so surprised that he spilled his drink and almost dropped the bottle.

Kelsie was ugly; this was no coup. But Lip could see Ian struggling to maintain an eager expression as they were herded toward the closet. Real suave.

They didn't stay in any longer than the other couples before they were rousted out. Lip watched Ian closely as he made his way back to the safety of Roger and Jay, Kelsie's raspberry-pink lip gloss smeared on his pale chin.

Then La'Von spun Karen around—Lip had been too preoccupied with watching Ian to notice it was her turn—and gave her a hard shove into Lip.

She lowered the blindfold, letting it rest for a second on the bridge of her button nose, peeking to see whom she'd lucked into.

" _God_ ," she said low in her throat.

She grabbed Lip by the wrist and led him to the closet. Inside, he reached to pull the chain to turn off the light, but she stopped him.

"No, let's just do it," she said.

"Okay," he replied, unable to keep a smile off his face. His heart was throbbing, his palms clammy.

He dove for her. She was stiff as he planted his mouth on hers, but then she came to life enough to shove him back off.

"Not like that," she said, " _God_."

"Sorry," Lip gasped.

They sat there, staring at each other for a few seconds. Lip could hear his own breath.

"You've really never done this before?" she asked.

"I have."

She laughed. "Bullshit _._ "

Lip opened his mouth to lie again, but she was leaning toward him and the lie died in his throat, floated off to heaven. She smelled clean, like laundry detergent. Lip had never been near anyone who smelled so nice.

"Like this," she said and put her mouth to his.

Lip closed his eyes as her tongue, warm and wet and alien played in his mouth, teased his own tongue. He murmured in appreciation and felt his dick getting hard. More more more. Fuck.

"Times up!" a voice intruded as one of La'Von's friends banged on the closet door and threw it open.

Lip sat back and watched as Karen climbed to her feet and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth delicately. She didn't even look at him, just returned to her girlfriends, giggling and accepting another bottle of lemonade.

Lip left the closet slightly crouched, attempting to cover up his partial hard-on, and was grateful to see Ian waiting for him just a few feet away.

"Can we go now?" Ian asked.

Lip glanced toward Karen, but she wasn't looking his direction.

"Yeah," he said to Ian, "Sure."

Outside in the air, Lip felt alive and excited. He didn't know yet that Karen would never acknowledge him again until years later when she approached him about tutoring her in Chemistry. He didn't know that she would deny this make-out story when he brought it up, look at him like he was nutty, assure him he had mixed her up with someone else. Eventually he would start to believe her that maybe he had.

But that night walking home from La'Von Harper's house with Ian by his side, Lip could've taken over the world, stopped asteroids from destroying Earth, cured cancer and the common cold in one swoop.

"Did you get hard?" Lip asked, "When you kissed Kelsie?"

" _No_ ," Ian replied as if insulted by the question.

"Really? I totally had to hide mine," Lip said, gaze distant at the memory, "Shit."

"Yeah," Ian amended his previous assertion with a shy smile, "Me too."

"She's pretty, isn't she?"

"Kelsie?"

"Karen Jackson."

"Oh. I dunno. She's stuck up."

"Sorry you got stuck with dogface. Seems about right, though."

They reached the end of the street, and Ian nodded toward the park, "Wanna go screw around?"

Lip scoffed at the suggestion and instead directed Ian over to the other side of the street, picking up their pace as they approached the intersection. "Got a better idea," Lip said.

Ian gave him a wary look as Lip stepped up to the door of the Mini Mart.

"Cover me?" Lip asked.

Ian rolled his eyes but nodded.

In the store, Ian distracted the guy at the counter, asking half a dozen idiotic questions while Lip wandered down the aisles. Ian was really good at playing stupid. He could come across as a little slow when he really put his mind to it, a skill Lip found endlessly useful. This, combined with his dumb hair and apple cheeks and Bambi eyes always made people feel sorry for him rather than suspect him. He could pull off 'innocent' better than anyone Lip had ever seen.

Lip came back up to the counter just as Ian was wrapping up the final part of his performance.

"I think he wanted Tylenol," Ian said, stumbling over the drug name, then pausing, confused, and correcting himself, "No. No, he wanted Ex-…Ex-…Ex—"

"Excedrin?" the clerk asked.

"Yeah," Ian grinned like sunshine, "That's it!"

The clerk looked bored but turned around to take a package of Excedrin off the shelf behind him.

"Oh, no," Ian said, "The red one, I think? That red one up top? Is that Ex—ex—"

"Excedrin," the clerk finished for him and stretched to reach the Excedrin Extra Strength on the top shelf.

As the clerk did this, Lip made his move, one swift, smooth action. Ian never took his eyes off the clerk, never even dropped for a second that look of pure idiotic expectation from his face.

The clerk stepped back down off his toes, turned to face them once again and set the red and white box in front of Ian.

"That all?" the clerk asked, "Just the Excedrin?"

Ian smiled and nodded. Then, perfectly, his smile faltered.

"H-how much is it?" Ian asked.

"Six-forty-nine before tax."

"Oh."

Now Lip piped up to play his part. "You got the money from Dad, right?" he asked Ian.

"Uh…"

Lip smacked Ian upside the head, making the clerk flinch.

"Dad's gonna be pissed!" Lip scolded him, "You're such an idiot!"

"S-sorry," Ian apologized miserably.

"Come on," Lip said sharply, grabbing Ian by the shoulder and herding him out. "Sorry," he called over his shoulder to the clerk, "He's just an idiot."

Ian kept up his cringing posture and Lip his impatient manhandling until they reached the end of the block, then both simultaneously dropped back to their casual gait.

"What'd you get?" Ian asked.

Lip held open his coat, displaying a bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos and a Twix bar shoved in the inner pocket.

"Nice," Ian approved, taking the Twix bar and immediately ripping it open.

"Got this too," Lip added slyly, producing a box of Trojan condoms from his outside pocket.

"What for?" Ian asked around a mouthful of cookie and chocolate.

"For us," Lip explained, gesturing broadly under the streetlight, "Whole new world startin' tonight."

Ian seemed less than enthusiastic. He took another bite of Twix and said nothing.

Lip tore open the box and then unfurled the string of condoms. He tore off the last two and held them out to Ian.

Ian stared at him.

"Take it," Lip instructed, "I'll handle the rest."

"Huh?"

"We got 'til," Lip turned the box over and squinted at the printed date, "January 2013."

"To do what?"

"Fuck. Otherwise they go bad."

"What, like milk?"

"Like anything, dumbass. Like your dick if you don't use it. Better get workin' on your game."

Ian grimaced but accepted the two condoms. He tucked them in the pocket of his jeans and handed Lip the other half of the Twix.

Ian looked so unhappy, though—scared, maybe—that Lip felt a twinge of regret. Lip pocketed the rest of the condoms, tossed the empty box into the gutter and asked, "You still wanna go to the park?"

"Nah," Ian shrugged, "We're too old."

"Park's not for kids at this time of night," Lip said, "All crackheads and cheap whores. We'll fit right in."

Ian smiled.

"Come on," Lip coaxed him, leading him in.

The park was empty, and they mostly just walked around for a bit, kicking at the scant wood chips, avoiding the swings because they truly were too old for that.

They passed the creaky old roundabout, its green paint all flaky, and Ian paused to rest his hands on the metal.

"I'll push you," Ian said, "Get on."

Lip started to say no, but Ian looked so earnest, so ready to get back to the way things had always been that Lip gave in. He hopped onto the roundabout and sat as Ian braced himself against the side, began to push and move forward.

Ian had always done the pushing—they never took turns; Ian always volunteered. His whole life, he'd been practically vibrating with energy, eager to take any opportunity to expend some of it, put his twiggy limbs through their paces.

In comparison, Lip always felt lazy. He was more than content to read instead, let Ian volunteer his heart out. Lip enjoyed watching him, anyway. He loved to see the excitement Ian exuded just in moving, careening toward the end of the Earth, leaping from steps, swinging from monkey bars, confident in every move, like Sonic the Hedgehog with no Game Over.

Ian pushed that night, moving faster, feet pounding harder until Lip couldn't tell what was the world anymore, what was sky, what was grass. Lip laid back, the cold of the metal seeping through his clothes, the sound of Ian's footfalls a steady hard rhythm against the ground. Then Ian leaped on and sprawled out beside Lip, giggling a little.

They spun for a long time, watching the blank, black night sky spin too. Neither of them spoke—they didn't need to. They just lay tipsy and awed as time rotated by faster than they could age.

Ian laughed, and Lip grinned to the heavens at the sound of immortality.

* * *

 

"He stole the fuckin' TV. He's havin' a…I don't know. He's having one of those fuckin'  _episodes_  again. The lyin' and the club and now he's stealin' shit from the house? What is he, fuckin' pawnin' it? For what?"

Lip rubs his temple and switches the phone from one ear to the other. He navigates the swarms of students in the hall, wishing he hadn't answered the phone. There'd been two missed calls from Mickey during Lip's morning lecture, though, so Lip had picked up on the third ring as soon as class let out, assuming a crisis.

"I'm gettin' a car right now. I'm comin' down. Don't know what the fuck I was thinkin' listenin' to you."

"Mickey—"

"You know best, you know best—what the fuck do  _you_  know? Shit. I gotta stop listenin' to shit Ian says. Just 'cause  _he_  thinks you're smart sure as fuck don't mean you're smart. I've known you longer than I've known him— _I_  knew you were a fuckin' idiot since Sixth Grade…why the fuck would I listen to him? Listen to you? Fuck. Shit. I gotta get down there."

"Mickey—"

"Fuck, is he all right? What's he doin'? Where is he? We even know? Fuck. What the fuck was I thinkin'?  _Fuck_."

Lip ends the call and stands there, waiting. He's contemplating whether it's worth dealing with the cold outside in order to have a cigarette when the phone rings again.

He answers, "Yeah?"

"You fuckin' hang up on me?!"

Lip sighs. "You gonna give me a second to talk?"

There's a strangled, angry gurgling sound as Mickey forces himself not to say something. After a second, he replies stiffly, "Go ahead."

"Ian's fine," Lip says, "Not havin' an episode. Not run away. Just, you know, livin' his life without you. He's at work right now."

There's dead silence. Then Mickey asks quietly, "Why didn't he call me? How long's he been up?"

"Since last night? I don't know. I thought he was gonna call you this morning."

More silence.

Lip doesn't like that, so he adds, "After he got back from the gym. Thought he was gonna call you then."

Mickey clears his throat and asks, "He's back at the gym?"

"Yeah. I mean, isn't that what he always does before work? Too icy for a run outside."

There's another long pause before Mickey agrees in a lifeless voice, "Yeah. That's what he always does."

Neither of them speaks until Mickey asks, "How's he doin'?"

"Eh," Lip says, "He's good. He was pretty down about stuff for a while, but seems like he's over it now. You know, life goes on."

Mickey doesn't say anything, so Lip continues, "I mean, that's kinda how he is. Ian's not much for wallowing."

"I got shit I gotta do," Mickey says abruptly and hangs up.

Lip glances at his phone in surprise, but brushes it off. He checks the time before he puts the phone back in his pocket and sets out on a small detour en route to his afternoon cafeteria shift.

He finds Ian in his usual location where he eats lunch, but Lip is surprised to see that Ian is not alone. Amanda is sitting beside him on the bench. They're both holding boxes from the overpriced salad cart in the Student Union and laughing about something.

"The hell's this?" Lip asks as he approaches them.

Both of their smiles cool a few degrees as they see him.

"Lunch," Ian replies then asks, "Aren't you supposed to be at work?"

"He is," Amanda answers for Lip, picking up her Fiji water as if she's holding a glass of champagne, "His shift starts in fifteen minutes."

"You in the market for a new beard now?" Lip asks Ian.

Ian doesn't bother responding to this. Instead, Amanda says, "I'm allowed to have lunch with anyone I want to."

"Sure," Lip nods, "But you'd have better luck gettin' a pity fuck from some of the other janitors around here. All I'm sayin'."

"What do you want?" Ian asks.

"Nothing. Just wanted to tell you to call your fuckin' husband and tell him to stop botherin' me. Quit bein' such a pussy."

Lip turns and huffs on off to his cafeteria shift. This day seems hellbent on being as obnoxious as possible and for once he's glad to get to deal with dirty dishes for a few hours instead of morons. Dishes don't present intricate, near-unsolvable problems, and dishes never do things just to piss you off. Dishes are dishes. But the best thing is, if they  _do_  piss you off, you just break them, sweep up the mess and move on. If only life with people could be so easy.

* * *

 

Lip reeks of French fry grease when he heads back to his dorm room around six. Exhausted, he collapses into his desk chair, yanking off his hairnet with one hand and pulling the new bottle of Old Crow from the paper bag with the other. He about leaps out of his skin, though, when he hears Mickey's voice from somewhere say, "Is that fuckin' Dipshit?"

Lip turns and notices for the first time that Ian is here, sitting far back on the bed and holding his phone out in front of him. He must be Facetiming with Mickey.

"He just got home," Ian says dismally, "Lemme get my shoes on. I'll go outside and call you back."

"Hey, don't mind me," Lip says, grabbing some earbuds out of the desk drawer and plugging them into his phone, "I'll listen to some music. It's cold as shit outside."

He quickly stuffs the buds in, pulls up some music on his phone, but doesn't actually press Play.

Ian doesn't speak, and Lip can feel Ian's wariness even though Lip has his back to him. Lip gives a little head bob and acts like he's into whatever he's supposedly listening to. Then he pulls open his laptop and begins plugging mindless calculations into a new spreadsheet.

"What? He's not leavin'?" Mickey asks.

"He's got headphones on," Ian replies.

There is tense silence, and Lip realizes that he must have arrived right as the call started. They haven't really talked about anything yet.

Lip keeps up the ruse of working to try and prevent his presence from adding to the tension. He flips open his engineering textbook and frowns over it before typing in more senseless calculations.

It seems to do the trick because then Mickey launches right into it. "So, you can't even fuckin' call me?"

"That's what I'm doing."

Mickey gives a sigh of frustration then in a gentler tone he asks, "How you feelin'?"

Lip waits with Mickey for a response, but then Mickey says, "Don't go shruggin' at me. Tell me how you're feelin'."

"I dunno. I'm fine."

"You're not good, right? You been down? You talk to Dr. Stanzek yet? Get some new meds?"

"No."

"Well, don't worry about it. I'll come down tomorrow, and we'll go see her together, get you fixed up."

"It's not…"

"What?"

"It's not about that. My meds are fine."

"No they're not. Look at the shit you been doin'—"

Ian mumbles something, but Lip can't understand him. Mickey apparently can't either because he asks, "Huh?"

"I'm sorry," Ian spits out like a bullet. His words devolve back into a mumble, though, "About…you know."

"Doesn't matter. Forget about it."

"Mickey…"

"It's over. Doesn't matter. Let's just work on gettin' you better, okay?"

There's a thump and Lip is pretty certain it's the sound of Ian flopping back against the headboard in frustration. Lip's done the same thing many a time.

"What's wrong with  _you_?" Mickey asks.

"I don't know. You tell me."

"Don't be like that."

There is a long silence. Lip almost forgets to keep typing, he's so caught up in waiting for one of them to make a move. The silence continues to grow, though, and Lip is not certain whether they're having a staring contest, have switched to Sign Language or what.

Then Ian blurts out, "I think you should stay in Milwaukee."

"What? The fuck? Don't do this shit again."

"Again?"

"This 'don't come home' shit. I'm not buyin' this drama queen crap."

This statement seems to throw Ian off for a second, but then he gets back on task and says, "You said it could go til Christmas, right? The job for your uncle? And then Svetlana could have time to finish her whole thing."

"What are you talkin' about? He'll find someone else to do it. I don't owe him shit."

"I think it'd be good for Svetlana."

"She can fuckin' stay here then. Long as she wants. Hell do I care?"

"Yeah, but, it's not…" Ian is struggling to spit out the plan he'd articulated relatively easily the night before, and it is taking everything in Lip's power not to turn around and do the talking for him. This conversation is agonizing to sit through.

"If you saw the job out," Ian begins again, "I think…I think that could be good. For you. See what you think about it."

Mickey is quiet, seeming caught off guard or confused. "What I think about what?" he asks, "Milwaukee? I can tell you right now, it's a shithole."

"No. See what you think about…"

"What?"

Ian says something unintelligible.

Mickey sighs and says, "Come on, Mumbles. See what I think about what?"

"About not having to deal with me."

Mickey is quiet again. There is another uncomfortable stretch of silence.

"So, what're you sayin'? Don't come home?"

"No," Ian replies firmly, "I'm not saying that."

"Then what're you sayin'?"

Ian hesitates then says, "I think you need some time away from me."

"Fuck  _that_. No, I don't. Ian…Come on."

There is another unbearably tense silence. The only sound is Lip clacking away with the calculations.

Finally, Mickey speaks. "What if I stop listenin' to all this bullshit now, and I come home?"

"Then  _I'll_  go away."

"Ian—what the fuck?"

More silence.

When Lip hears Ian speak next, his voice sounds extra reedy

"Mick, please…I need some time to just…we need  _time_."

"For what? So you can go on livin' your double-fuckin-life? Sow your fuckin' oats in Boystown? Make some more cash blowin' geriatrics who promise to take you on their yachts and shit? You think that's gonna last? You think those assholes are gonna think you're so great once you start lookin' more like thirty than sixteen?"

Ian says nothing to this, which seems to further enrage Mickey.

"Yeah, suddenly you got nothin' to say now, huh? Huh? You gonna say anything?"

"Fuck…" Ian squeaks and Lip can hear his voice cracking pitifully.

Immediately, Mickey's tone goes soft again. "Hey—hey, don't do that. I'm sorry. Don't—Ian…Jesus Christ, you're not okay. Let me come down there and help you, all right? We'll go see the doc—"

Lip leaps out of his chair as the phone goes flying over his shoulder and tumbles across the top of the desk.

Lip stands there in shock, staring at the desk, trying to determine if anything's been broken. He doesn't notice that Ian's gone until the door slams.

He frowns at the door but his attention is caught by a muffled voice. Mickey is still on Facetime, but Ian's phone is lying facedown beside the toppled mug of pens.

Lip retrieves it and is greeted by Mickey's disgruntled face.

"Uh, hey," Lip says.

"What the fuck?"

"Ian's…Ian left."

The concern and dismay on Mickey's face irritates Lip for some reason.

"What're you standin' there for?" Mickey demands, "Go after him."

"He's in his socks," Lip says, "He's not going anywhere."

"Fuck," Mickey whispers to himself. Then he looks back up at Lip and tells him, "He is  _not_  all right."

Lip sighs and rubs his eyes with his free hand before he says, "No, he's not, but I don't think you pushin' the bipolar shit down his throat every ten seconds is helping. I don't think you doin' anything right now is helping."

"What am I supposed to do?" Mickey asks in a defenseless voice that Lip has never heard him use.

And now he's looking to Lip, and for a strange moment, it reminds him of the way Fiona looks at him when she's overwhelmed and out of ideas and on the brink of desperation. Why does everybody always expect Lip to have the answers? Why does everybody treat him like some Magic 8-Ball, shaking him over and over until they get an answer that makes them feel better?

"You can't control him," Lip says coolly, "You can't just try to run his life."

"I'm not tryin' to run anything. I'm tryin' to help him."

"You ever hold a chick?"

"What?"

"Baby chicken? Little fluffy yellow thing? Used to bring 'em around grade school once in a while for us poor, unhealthy city kids? Truck in that petting zoo and set it up on the asphalt?"

"Fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Don't you remember?"

"Yeah, I remember. What's your point?"

"Remember how they told us to hold 'em? Kinda loose?"

As he says this, Lip leans the phone against his laptop and uses both hands to demonstrate holding an invisible chick.

Mickey's looking at Lip like he's lost it.

"Hold 'em too tight," Lip says, clapping his hands together, "and they suffocate."

Mickey gets it and turns his head away in disgust and frustration.

"What the hell does he want?" Mickey asks hopelessly when he looks back at him.

"Think he wants you to stay up there for a while. Think he made that pretty clear."

"Why?"

"I don't know, Mickey," Lip says, losing patience now, "Maybe he just wants some time off from playin' house. Bein' your nanny and your breadwinner…actin' like he's eighty years old with you. Who the fuck  _wouldn't_  want a break from that?"

Mickey rolls his lips over on themselves and closes his eyes, searching for some kind of conclusion.

After a long moment, Mickey opens his eyes and asks, "You're his secretary now, right?"

Lip sniffs in amusement, "Why not?"

"Tell him to call me when he wants me to come home. I'll—I'll be waitin' right here."

"Think that's smart," Lip nods.

"But you tell him," Mickey adds forcefully, "That I ain't goin' anywhere. You tell him that."

Lip starts to nod again and say, "Okay," but Mickey cuts him off and ends the call.

Lip puts Ian's phone to sleep and sets it back on the desk. He takes a few moments to fix everything that was knocked over then he finally pours himself that drink. He takes it, along with his textbook, and settles down onto Kuz's bed to get in a little studying while he waits for Ian's return.

He doesn't have to wait long. Ian comes slumping back in before Lip's finished his drink.

Ian takes a heavy seat on the edge of the other bed and lights a cigarette.

Lip pays no attention to him, just continues sipping and half-reading. Some of it's probably getting absorbed.

When Lip finishes off the drink and pours himself another, Ian finally snaps.

"How much of that shit are you gonna drink?"

Wordlessly, Lip hands him the glass.

"Thanks," Ian mutters. He drains the glass in three gulps.

Lip raises the bottle, offering another pour, but Ian shakes his head.

"I gotta work tomorrow."

"You've only had one glass."

"Yeah, but I'm, like, 85% Lithium now."

"They went back to Lithium again?"

Ian shrugs and holds out the glass. "Fuck does it matter?"

Lip fills Ian's glass then swipes a second glass from the desk for himself.

"Who's doing all your dishes?" Ian asks, watching Lip settle in with his refill.

"I work in a goddamned dishroom. What's a few more glasses in the dishwasher?"

Ian smiles at this, and Lip takes the opportunity to tell him, "Mickey's stayin' in Milwaukee."

The nod Ian gives to this is not cocky or even pleased. It seems like frightened resignation.

"He pissed?" Ian asks.

"No."

"Then why's he doing it?"

"Wants to make you happy. Everybody just wants to make you happy."

Ian gives no response to this. He sets his jaw tight and turns on the TV.

He flips channels until he finds some motocross event and the room fills with the noisy din of the television. They sip without speaking. Lip gives up on the textbook entirely and watches idiots spin through the dirt. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ian slouch slowly lower and lower on the bed, the whiskey having an impressively quick effect.

Lip is feeling a little warm and happy himself now, and when a commercial break comes on, he turns toward Ian and asks, "You ever heard of a rumspringa?"

Ian does his best to lift his eyelids a little as he asks, "What?"

"Rumspringa."

Ian giggles. "I don't know what you're saying."

"It's like…Amish. I read about it. Amish ritual."

Ian just smiles at Lip stupidly.

"When the Amish kids become teenagers," Lip says, struggling to remember the details, but just saying whatever comes to mind because it's not like Ian's gonna catch him on anything anyway, "They get, like, a free pass. To leave the farm. Go off and try out not bein' Amish for a while."

"Okay," Ian says, "Good for them."

"And they get to try everything. Smoking. Drinking. Drugs. Fucking. Dancing. Drivin' cars. Drivin' tanks…"

Ian giggles again at this and repeats to himself, "Driving tanks."

"But it's all for a reason, right? The Amish…elders? Parents? Send them off so they can know what they're missin'. See what the word outside is like and if that's somethin' they wanna do."

Ian's eyelids are half-lowered again, but he's watching Lip still.

Lip continues, "The point is if they come back to, you know, bein' Amish, they're committed to it. No wonderin' about if they're just doin' it 'cause they don't know anything else."

Ian finishes his drink and sets the glass on the edge of the nightstand, nearly dropping it to the floor before he realizes his miscalculation and sets it a little farther in.

"Why are you telling me about Amish people?" he asks, settling back into the bed.

"Cause I think that's the way to think about this," Lip says, leaning into the space between the beds, "Mickey's like a grumpy Amish teen who doesn't wanna go. Gotta give him a kick in the ass to get off the farm."

Ian's watching the TV again, and Lip can tell Ian's tuning him out. He decides to push some more.

"But that's the thing," Lip assures him, leaning further off the bed in his sincerity, "Maybe you're havin' your rumspringa too."

A motorbike tears up the side of a brown hill, and Lip is tempted to watch it, but he keeps his eyes on Ian, keeping him pinned until Ian eventually gives up and looks back at him.

"What do you want me to say?" Ian asks.

"I want you to see this as a good thing. I mean, you got what you wanted, right?"

Ian shifts his eyes back to the TV and asks, "Can we just stop talking? I'm tired of talking."

"Sure," Lip nods and settles in to watch TV, "We can do that."

* * *

 

"What a pussy!" Ian marvels, "He was totally clear to take that shot. You see that? Wide open, and he choked."

Lip laughs as Ian cups his hand around his mouth and shouts into the stadium, "You're a pussy!"

"He can't hear you."

Ian smiles at this, not taking his eyes off the court, and says, "He knows he's a pussy."

Lip laughs again and takes a sip of beer from his plastic cup. "You sure you don't want one?" he asks, "Some nachos? Something?"

"Nah," Ian replies, eyes following the ball, "I can't believe you never go to any games."

"I didn't even know we had a basketball team."

"College is wasted on you," Ian comments then he shouts at a passing player, voice disappearing into the din, "Who let you on the team?"

Lip drinks his beer, amused and content. The last couple days have been nothing remarkable—Ian's gone to work, Lip's gone to work, Ian's gone to the gym, Lip's gone to class—but Lip has been delighted. Even just getting high and watching TV together in the dorm room…Lip's found himself hustling home from his classes and his shifts, eager to bask in the company of his brother. Ian's still Ian and, with him, Lip feels like Lip again.

This evening Ian came back to the room brandishing tickets from his boss, decent seats for tonight's game. Lip had been looking forward to another night giggling over  _Antiques Roadshow_ , but Ian had seemed so pleased with himself that Lip gave in, got dressed again.

Seeing Ian happy is kind of a high in itself, an addicting one. Lip watches the game, but mostly he watches Ian watch the game. His face is lit up with rapt attention; his shoulders bob vicariously every time someone takes a shot, some sense-memory kicking in from his days on the court as a middle schooler. It wasn't that long ago, really.

Lip gulps his beer and enjoys the show.

It's been easy, these past couple days, to forget about the missing assignments piling up, the two midterms he bombed, the paper extension he hasn't taken advantage of yet, the projects still careening toward him down the pike.

Every time Lip has tried to do his work in earnest, something funny happens and his heart starts up with that racing again, his lungs feel tight, his head hurts. The sensation of that absolute panic from before starts creeping back up his body, and Lip banishes it with all his might. He doesn't want to end up like how he did the other day, that madness, babbling at his poor professor—he doesn't even want to remember that it ever happened—so he puts his books away, shuts down the documents.

Lips shakes these thoughts away, though, signals to the concession guy that it's time for another beer.

During halftime, Lip spots his lab partner making his way up the steps and calls him over.

"Kyle! Hey—want you to meet my brother. This is Ian. Ian—this is my friend Kyle."

"Hey," Kyle says, shaking hands with Ian, "Team's shit, huh?"

"No kidding," Ian says.

"How 'bout that last report?" Kyle asks Lip, "You get that back yet? I don't know what the fuck that TA is talking about. His comments don't make any sense. Gave me a 72—I don't even know why."

"Yeah," Lip commiserates blindly.

"Well, I gotta get back before my girlfriend loses her shit. See you Tuesday, Phil."

Ian is doing his best to suppress a smile as they sit back down in their seats. Lip ignores him, drains the last of his beer.

"Looks like you could use a re- _fill_ ," Ian remarks.

"Oh, that's very clever."

"Yeah?" Ian grins, "Is it, Phil?"

"Fuck off. He's my lab partner. I barely know the guy."

Ian snickers and starts texting someone. He's always texting people.

Lip sulks for a few minutes. But then the game starts up again and Ian's having such a good time, Lip forgets to be sore.

After the game, it's a surprisingly warm night so they take their time walking back to the dorm. Lip pulls off his cap and enjoys the brisk night breeze against his flushed, tipsy head. They pass a cigarette back and forth and all feels right with the world.

"You wanna go out somewhere?" Lip asks, "There's a couple bars around here that actually aren't that douchey. Couple dives a few blocks up."

"Don't you have homework to do?" Ian asks, "Thought you were always so busy up here."

"Yeah," Lip concedes, doing his best to sound nonchalant, "Probably should get started on that."

Lip tugs his hat back over his ears, the shine having gone off the evening a bit, but Ian steps out in front of him, starts walking backward so he can face him.

"Check this out, check this out," Ian says.

He sets the cigarette, filter side down on the tip of his nose. He tilts his head back and balances it there as he takes several steps in reverse.

"Look at that," Lip says, "Like a trained seal."

Ian holds up a finger indicating that Lip should wait.

After another step, Ian pauses then flicks his head. The cigarette flips into the air and Ian leans forward, catching it in his mouth.

He takes a drag theatrically and bows.

"Very impressive."

"Thanks, Phil."

Ian is so pleased with himself as he turns around and resumes walking forward on the path, hands the cigarette over. Lip is tempted to say something, to deflate that self-satisfaction, but Ian's good moods are often kind of contagious.

Back in the dorm room, Lip situates himself in front of his laptop on Kuz's bed, opens his latest uncompleted lab report. This time he will work.

Ian is shuffling stuff around, rearranging his things between his kit bag and his backpack. Lip has told him half a dozen times that he can put his stuff in the closet, but Ian's insisted on keeping everything but his coat and his uniform shirts jammed into these two bags. It's an ordeal every time he tries to find anything.

Lip is doing his best to ignore him and focus on the report when there is a flutter of sudden movement and two books and a thick catalogue come raining down on Lip's head.

"Shit," Ian barks, clawing out too late at them, his backpack dropping to the floor.

"Sorry," he says, grabbing for the dropped books.

"Tryin' to take me out?" Lip says, rubbing the front of his head where one of the library books connected.

Ian grunts, which causes Lip to look up. Somehow he can sense that Ian's mood has darkened. Then Lip notices that Ian's hands are trembling.

Lip darts his eyes away quickly before Ian catches that Lip has seen.

He gathers up the books so Ian doesn't have to keep trying and tosses them over to the other bed. He picks up the catalogue to toss it as well but pauses, realizing what it is.

"Still signing up in January?" Lip asks.

Ian gives up on trying to retrieve the catalogue and throws himself onto the other bed, folds his arms so that his hands are buried. He replies in a voice lacking all interest, "Everybody wants me to."

"What're you thinkin' about takin'?"

"Beats me. It all looks boring as shit."

"I still gotta take some gen eds," Lip offers brightly, "Maybe we can take a class together?"

"Back in school with you," Ian remarks without any of Lip's enthusiasm, "It'll be like we went back in time."

"Right?" Lip laughs, "It'd be great."

The idea has only just occurred to Lip, but it pleases him. It'd be kind of nice to take a class together, have a buddy, someone to talk about it with. Lip could keep an eye on Ian this way too, help him out with the work, make sure he stays on top of everything. The more he thinks about it, the more Lip likes the idea.

"You should join a club," Ian says out of the blue, "Don't they have a group for robot geeks, or something?"

"Why?"

"Make some friends, Phil."

That comment is like a sucker punch. It takes Lip a moment to recover his dignity. Suddenly he feels twelve years old again.

"I don't have time for friends," he explains.

"Everybody else around here's got them," Ian replies.

"Yeah, well, they don't all have to deal with the shit I've gotta deal with."

Ian says, "It's not that hard. Just talk to people and try not to be a dick."

Lip snorts. "That's not why people are friends with you. The only reason you've got any friends is 'cause they all think they're gonna get to fuck you. And most of them are probably right."

This doesn't get any response out of Ian, but that's confirmation enough that Lip has successfully deflected this attack. Lip takes his laptop back up and resumes staring at his unfinished lab report.

He's not sure why he hasn't finished the report yet. He was there the day they ran the tests the report is based on. He took notes. And yet when Lip tries to make sense of the notes, there in his own familiar handwriting, he can't. There are gaps where there should be information. Half of what's there he can't read, and he didn't bother to take any notes on what the professor was saying because apparently Past Lip assumed that Future Lip would just remember it all. Future Lip is fucked.

Lip buries a hand in his hair and widens his eyes, trying desperately to put it all together somehow, locate the essential pieces. He's so deep in attempting to will facts and figures to appear with the power of his brain that he only distantly registers that Ian is speaking again. Then all the tantalizing almost-there glimpses of the information he needs scatter to the winds and are, most assuredly, gone.

"What'd you say?" Lip asks, forcing himself away from the failure on the screen.

"I said they told me I need 120 credits, minimum."

It takes Lip a second to realize that Ian's talking about school again. Lip does his best to hide how much this pleases him as he says, "Yeah, that's pretty typical."

"If I do one class a semester, that's like…"

"Thirteen years."

Ian puts his head back and sighs. "I'll be able to take classes with Liam. He can help me with my homework."

"Or you could just screw off the whole job thing," Lip says, "Go to school full-time. Do it with loans like the rest of America."

"Then what?" Ian asks, "Even if I could get through that, what the hell's out there for me? Still just a fucking lost cause."

_Lost cause_. Lip had described Monica that way to Fiona the other day. He's thought of Monica like that for a long time. And it's true, he thinks.

But hearing that term again, hearing Ian apply it to himself, is another punch to the gut. It's not right, though. It's not true. And it pisses Lip off that Ian would retreat behind an idea like that.

"Why do you keep actin' like you've been disqualified for everything?" Lip snaps, "Just because the Army's a bust, doesn't mean 'that's it—no more dreams for Ian!' Shit, Ian. Be a gym teacher. Or make a career at Planet Fitness tellin' fat rich housewives they need to cool it on the bread and do another twenty reps. They'll fuckin' love you for it. Or go work in an office. Or sell shit. Mr. 'It's so easy to make friends'? Use that. Stop actin' like some little kid cryin' cause he doesn't get to play GI Joe anymore."

Lip stares Ian down, waiting for a response, but Ian's face remains unchanged.

"Well?" Lip asks, "How about it?"

"How about what?" Ian scowls, "Shitty job A or shitty job B. So many great choices."

"What job isn't shitty?"

"I dunno, Lip," Ian says contemptuously, "You're gonna have a pretty sweet job once you get out of here."

Lip laughs. "You suddenly give a shit about robotics?"

"No. I just…At least you get to be important. All those guys I know who are off doing officer's training now? They're gonna get to do something that matters. All my options? Just different versions of pushing a broom."

"I can't help it if you suck at math, man," Lip says, attempting to make a joke.

But Ian doesn't even crack a smile. There's no sign of the carefree kid from earlier, out to see a college basketball game, doing party tricks on the walk home.

"Sit there a second," Lip says, coming to a decision, "I wanna show you something."

He goes to the desk, digs through one of the drawers until he finds a small stack of binder-clipped pamphlets he'd tucked in there ages ago. He carries them back to the bed and opens his laptop. He immediately minimizes all uncompleted homework and launches a browser window, begins opening up a couple of bookmarked pages in different tabs.

Lip scoops up the laptop and takes a seat beside Ian, shoves the pamphlets at him.

"What's this?" Ian asks, fanning the brochures out to read the covers but handling them like they're smeared with dog crap. His hands seem to have stopped tremoring, at least.

"It's all the shit about EMT and Paramedic certification they do over at Malcolm X. Went by there a few months ago, picked it up for you."

"Me?"

"Yeah. I don't know. Just thought at some point you might want another option. This seemed good for you. Indulge your vanity. Let you play out your hero complex."

Ian is quiet, and Lip uses the opportunity to scoot the laptop half onto Ian's knees and show him the bookmarked pages.

"This is all the state and city requirement stuff," Lip says, flipping between tabs, "How you get certified, how many hours of training…Pretty straight-forward. From what I can tell, it's kinda competitive, but when did that ever stop you?"

Ian still isn't saying anything. Lip turns to look at him and is surprised to find that he looks upset. He seems to be struggling to speak.

"They won't want me," Ian manages finally in a tiny voice, "Second they see my medical records, that's it." He pushes the laptop back onto Lips knees and adds, "It was a nice idea, though."

"No," Lip says, shaking his head, "No, I thought about that. Snooped around a little more. You know there's a couple of sites out there for firefighter and paramedics—message boards, stuff like that? Found a thing where some guy asked about that. He was like you, you know? Wonderin' if he should even bother doin' the training and the classes, if they'd reject him out of hand. Bunch of guys answered him. Bipolar firefighters and EMTs. Said a lot of interesting stuff."

"No shit," Ian whispers.

"It's funny," Lip says, "Ever since all this happened with you, it's like I can't walk two feet without tripping over somebody bipolar. One of Amanda's sorority sisters. Guy I work with…You gotta stop actin' like you're the Elephant Man."

Ian has fallen silent once more, his expression unreadable. Lip curbs the desire to shake him, make sure he knows that he's the furthest thing from a  _lost cause_. But reassurances never seem to work with Ian anymore, so Lip treads lightly.

"The ambulance companies," Lip explains, "Most of them are private, you know? They hire whoever the hell they want. Apparently, most of them don't give a shit about psychological exams."

Lip gets up to pour himself a drink and wait for Ian to give him some kind of a response to this, any kind of response. When Ian doesn't, though, just continues to sit there, eyes resting limply on the brochures, Lip takes a sip and blathers on, trying like he always does to explain his audience over to his side.

"Firefighter might be harder. Guess they do a psychological background check, or something. Couple guys on there said bein' bipolar didn't disqualify them; some other guys said it did. Screw the fire department, though, man. Rather not have my little brother sucking up smoke every day, luggin' around a hundred pounds of equipment in two hundred degree heat. Let some other saps' brother die like that. Yellow's not really your color anyway."

Ian glances up at that, and Lip tilts his head, pointing at his own hair and says, "Clashes. You'd look like Ronald McDonald."

Ian offers him a half-smile and closes the laptop. He sets it aside and stacks the brochures on top of it.

"We got any weed left?" Ian asks.

"No," Lip replies, dismayed, "That's it? You're not even gonna say anything? I've been sittin' on that for months."

"Why?"

"Well, you know, you seemed like you were just sorta barely figurin' all this out back then. Then you had that little set-back up on the roof? Thought the last thing you needed was more pressure about your fuckin' future. Then you seemed to be doin' really well with this job, the school stuff happened… I don't know. Didn't seem like you needed it."

"I don't."

Lip gulps his drink bitterly and says, "I knew if I suggested it, you'd blow it off just 'cause it was my idea. You hate everything I suggest on principle."

"You suggest dumb shit."

"That wasn't dumb. Ian, you can really do that if you want to. There's nothin' stoppin' you."

"God, enough with the pep talks," Ian groans, "I'm so tired of everybody trying to convince me that I didn't draw the shit straw."

A notification dings on Ian's phone and he takes it from his pocket, slides his finger across the screen to view.

"Short straw," Lip can't stop himself from correcting, "You drew the short straw."

"Sure as hell did," Ian mutters and types back a response to whomever is texting him.

There are a few more dings as Ian continues to type, indicating a quick conversation. Lip watches, slightly offended that Ian has interrupted their conversation for this one.

"Okay," Ian sighs, slipping his phone back into his pocket and climbing up from the bed, "I'm gonna go get a drink with a friend."

"You're going out? Thought you were hangin' out here." Lip cringes as he hears the hurt shrillness to his own voice. He sounds like he's spent all day preparing a meatloaf for a husband who's now blown off dinner to meet his golf buddies.

"And do what?" Ian asks, "Watch more TV? We don't even have anymore pot."

"Who's this friend?" Lip demands to know, "What exactly are you goin' out to do?"

Ian fastens the toggles on his coat and sighs, "He's just a friend. I'd invite you, but you got work to do, right?"

Lip furrows his brow, but Ian meets this with a shit-eating grin.

"Best thing about a broom-pushing job," he says as he wraps his scarf around his neck, "No homework."

Lip watches helplessly as Ian heads for the door.

Ian turns with that same patronizing smile, just before he lets himself out and says, "Don't wait up for me."

As the door closes, Lip stomps to the bed and tosses the certification pamphlets at the other side of the room. They flutter unsatisfyingly to the floor.

* * *

 

Lip gives up on trying to do work about an hour after Ian has left. Instead Lip watches TV alone, still sitting on Kuz's bed, and drinks himself to sleep.

He dreams he is in the old ice cream truck sorting fireworks with Mandy then Mandy becomes Karen.

"We gotta run to Indiana again," Lip says, "Gotta restock."

"We don't even have anymore pot," Karen tells him, "That's a fire hazard."

They sift through the piles of fireworks some more. There are so many fireworks. The pile just keeps getting bigger, and each time Lip forms a stack of like ones, they slide back in among the others and Lip has to start all over.

They sort for hours it seems like before Lip realizes Karen's wearing the dress she wore at her wedding party. No one ever looked prettier in white.

"You remember when you kissed me in the closet?" he asks her.

She replies, "I never kissed you. I don't even know you."

"We don't even have anymore pot," Lip says, "Ian won't stay."

"Neither will the baby."

"Is it here?" Lip asks, excitement fluttering up in his chest.

Karen nods and smiles as she says, "Yes. In the freezer."

Lip stumbles up the pile of fireworks, now reaching almost as high as the top of the van and searches for the freezer where the ice cream bars and bomb pops are kept.

As he scales the mountain of fireworks and slides to the other side, however, Lip finds himself in the Gallagher house now, in the kitchen with the yellow wallpaper and the blood-stained vinyl tiles.

He checks the kitchen freezer for the baby, but there isn't anything in there. He checks the oven too, finds it empty as well. He doesn't check the dryer, though. There's somebody in there, and he doesn't want to know who.

Ian can help him. Ian can help find the baby. Lip just needs to find Ian, and everything will be okay.

Lip trudges through to the dining room and instead finds two more rooms he's never noticed before.

"No shit," he says, ogling the new space. It looks very modern.

He continues on toward the living room, a journey that takes a strangely long time. Lip finally reaches the room but stops in horror.

Ian is playing patty-cake with Lip's baby. All this time, everyone's been hiding the baby from Lip, keeping it from him, keeping it a secret and whispering behind his back. And here Ian was with it all along—why does Ian get the baby?

"We don't even have anymore pot!" Lip cries in outrage.

Ian looks at him with disdain. Ian's already got his coat on as he sweeps up the baby in his arms and tells Lip, "You had your chance. You blew it."

Lip wants to see the baby's face, but Ian won't let him. Every time Lip leans in toward the baby, Ian holds it closer to his chest and turns his back to Lip. Lip keeps reaching, but then the baby isn't there anymore, and Ian looks so angry.

Lip tries to apologize, but the words can't seem to make it out of his mouth. As he struggles, Ian's face grows darker and more enraged. Then Ian lunges for him—

Lip sits up in a sweaty panic.

It's dark in the dorm room. He could have sworn he fell asleep with the TV on, but now it's off.

He looks to the other bed, but it's empty.

Heart racing, Lip grabs his phone and dials the first person that comes to mind.

"What's wrong?" Amanda answers

"Nothing," Lip pants, "Nothing. Sorry."

"It's two-thirty in the morning."

"I'm sorry."

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. I'm sorry."

"Lip?"

He closes his eyes and tries to take a deep breath, but he can't. Everything is swimming too, even the darkness behind his eyelids.

"Lip? Are you okay?"

Lip nearly leaps off the bed as he sees a shape on the floor that looks like a baby sitting up. It's just Ian's discarded boots, though.

"Shit," Lip whispers, "Oh, shit."

He rests his dizzy head against the wall and closes his eyes again.

"Do you need me to call someone?" Amanda asks, "Do you need me to come over?"

"No," Lip says, managing more composure now, "Really, I'm fine. I'm sorry. I had a bad dream."

"You had a bad dream and you called me?" There's something an awful lot like pleasure in her voice.

"Well, you weren't here," he tries to explain.

"That's sweet. I almost forgive you for waking me up."

"I wish I could stop it."

"Stop what?"

"This. Feeling like this. Having these dreams."

He rubs his eyes and adds, "I'm fucking up. I'm fucking everything up."

"I know."

He stares into the spinning dark for a long moment, then squeezes his eyes shut again and asks, "You go see someone, right?"

There's a pause as Amanda deciphers this statement. "You mean my therapist?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah, I see her every two weeks pretty much."

"But you're fine."

"I don't know. I've got some issues. I think we all do."

Lip swallows hard and asks, "Does it help?"

"Sometimes."

"Okay," Lip says, opening his eyes, "Okay. I'm gonna go now. I'm sorry."

"It's all right. You sure you're okay? I'm up. I can stay on a little longer."

"No. Go back to sleep. I'm sorry."

"Stop saying you're sorry."

"But I am."

"What are we talking about now?"

"I don't know. I'm sorry, though. Goodnight."

Lip ends the call and drops the phone onto the bed. He's still resting his spinny head against the wall, but now he's looking at the boots again.

Ian had his boots on when he left. He must have come home.

Lip climbs from the bed and stumbles woozily to the men's room. There's no one in there, though. Lip heads back into the dim hallway, taking the long way to his room so that he passes the lounge, but there's no one in there either.

Then he spies the janitorial supply closet that he's never really noticed before. Or perhaps he has noticed it on some half-conscious level because he's looking at it right now and can tell it looks different than it usually does. There's a light on inside—Lip can clearly see it through the crack under the door. He can't imagine anyone else who would've been able to unlock it at this hour.

Lip pulls open the door and finds Ian inside, leaning against a shelf of industrial-sized toilet paper rolls.

"Shit," Ian mutters turning away from him quickly, but not quickly enough that Lip doesn't notice that Ian's eyes are red and wet.

"Get out," Ian says, swiping at his eyes with the bottom of his palm.

Lip closes the door and moves closer, asking, "You all right?"

"No," Ian replies bitterly.

Lip uses his clumsy hands to tear a fistful of toilet paper off one of the big dispenser rolls and he hands it to Ian.

"Did you turn off the TV?" Lip asks.

"Huh? Oh. Yeah. You were passed out."

Ian eyes him strangely as Lip too leans back against the shelf.

"You can go back to the room," Ian tells him, "I'll be there in a few minutes. I just wanted some privacy."

"No," Lip replies, closing his eyes, "I need a sec."

"Are you still drunk?"

"I think so."

"How the hell do you wake up drunk?"

"I don't know. Like this, I guess."

"Jesus, Lip."

Lip changes the subject. "What're you crying about?"

"I wasn't crying."

"Okay. What're you stoically sniffling about?"

"Nothing. Forget it."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Ian is quiet for so long that Lip thinks he isn't going to say anything at all. Then Ian sits down on the floor with his elbows on his knees. Lip follows, sitting beside him in exactly the same position, their knees and shoulders touching on the one side. It feels to Lip like they might be communicating something, somehow, sitting like this, like it might be enough with or without words.

Eventually, though, Ian says in a voice tinged with disbelief, "It's really gonna end. He's gonna love somebody that's not me. And somebody else is gonna get to have him."

He dabs roughly at his eyes with the stiff toilet paper, as if angry at the way they have betrayed him, allowing this level of pain to be revealed. It occurs to Lip that Ian's body has been betraying him for the past year at least. It seems a cruel fate for someone who spent most of his life moving through space a perfect specimen of form and control. A memory of Ian loping across the Little League field, so confident and graceful passes through Lip's mind, and it feels bittersweet now.

But maybe Lip's just thinking like a philosophical drunk. He certainly feels the part at the moment, queer thoughts like these forming, but nothing useful turning up.

He apologizes for this failure, saying, "I don't have answer for you, Ian."

"I didn't ask for one."

"Okay."

Lip rests his hand over the top of Ian's knee and keeps it there, the closest attempt at comfort he can manage right now. To his surprise, Ian leans his head down so that it's resting against the side of Lip's head, as if Ian needs Lip to support whatever is going on inside there.

They remain like this for a long time before Ian speaks again:

"I can't keep hurting him, but I don't know how to not do it."

Lip smiles at this because it's something he actually understands too well.

Lip replies, "The second you start caring about people, somebody always gets hurt."

"I don't want to hurt anybody anymore."

"Then stop givin' a fuck."

Ian says nothing to this, and it occurs to Lip that not giving a fuck might be beyond Ian's capabilities. Ian gives too much of a fuck, always, about everyone. Maybe helping Ian remove Mickey from his life is not going to be the clean surgical procedure Lip has been assuming. Ian's heart is far too messy.

And sitting here beside him, under the solid weight of Ian's head, Lip begins to second-guess himself.

Lip tossed his heart off a bridge a long time ago and has been limping along on an under-sized spare ever since. This works for him; it pumps blood only for the physical essentials, nothing frivolous. Or dangerous. Nothing that can hurt him.

Ian still has his original heart, though. It has remained intact, miraculously, all these years. It's one of the things Lip most loves and dreads about him. Ian may no longer be defined by his body, but he is still his heart. And Lip doesn't know if Ian could survive a transplant to something like Lip's too-small model. This whole plan might be much more high-risk than Lip anticipated.

But Lip is too tired and too drunk to deal with this now. He doesn't know what this moment is, doesn't have any control over it at all, but it's reassuring to have Ian here with him, solid and real and familiar. The warmth of Ian leaning on him lulls Lip into a placid drowsiness.

He dozes off.

After some time of blessedly dreamless rest, Ian shakes him awake, helps Lip to his feet.

Big brother mode kicks in from some deep primordial place and Lip attempts to keep up the façade of his wisdom as he tells Ian in a sleepy voice, "You gotta get to bed. You know you'll only feel worse if you don't."

"Right," Ian says, guiding Lip down the hall, "But how 'bout you? You're as bad as me these days."

"No one's as bad off as Ian Gallagher," Lip slurs, "Isn't that what you keep tryin' to tell me?"

"You're giving me a run for my money right now."

"Sibling rivalry. Can't help it."

Ian huffs a little laugh.

They reach the room and Lip claps his hand on Ian's shoulder as Ian unlocks the door.

"Don't worry," Lip says, "We got a whole new day to fuck up tomorrow."

* * *

 

Lip goes to his cafeteria shift and his one Friday class and wonders why he even bothered. He doesn't understand the lecture because he's fallen so far behind on the readings and hasn't been paying attention to any lectures for weeks, really. He tries to take some notes, but it's like writing out a foreign language phonetically, and he gives up part-way through.

He doesn't feel that bad, though, because he tells himself he'll figure it out once he gets home. He'll take the weekend to catch up on all the readings, teach himself what he missed. He's taught himself pretty much everything he knows so far in life—why should any of this stuff be any different? It's not like these professors possess any particular kind of genius—they learned it all somewhere else first too.

His mood brightens substantially as class ends and he heads back to his dorm. Ian's probably done with the gym by now and should be waiting for him. It's good to have some one to come home to, someone who likes him and gives a shit. It feels like coming home to the Gallagher house used—you could always be assured there'd be someone there to commiserate with.

Ian is indeed back in the dorm room, but Lip is perturbed to find him sitting at one of the desks, filling a pipe with weed. Surrounding him on the desktop are piles of Ziploc baggies filled with varying amounts of weed, several hundred dollars worth at least.

"Where the hell did you get all this?" Lip demands, picking up and setting down a few different baggies.

Ian jiggles the ring of janitor's keys sitting beside him on the desk and resumes filling his bowl as he says, "Knocked on a couple doors with my cart. People were home, asked if they needed replacement light bulbs. People weren't home, I checked to make sure their light bulbs were all good."

"Are you fuckin' serious?"

Ian smiles to himself as he pushes the flakes down in and says, "You can get away with anything if you're in a janitor's uniform. It's like being invisible. Anyway, don't worry. No one's gonna call campus safety and report their pot got stolen."

"What if somebody saw you?"

"Nobody saw me."

Lip rolls his eyes and takes a seat on the desk. He snatches up another one of the baggies and examines the bud inside.

"Can't believe I didn't think of this," he says.

That gets a smile out of Ian who remarks, "That's 'cause you're not thinking like a Gallagher anymore."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," Ian laughs, "The longer you stay away from the Southside, the more you start thinking like an upstanding citizen."

"That's a scary thought."

Ian takes a hit, his face going soft and carefree for a moment before he exhales and grumbles, "Jesus Christ, I'm bored."

"Better than the way you've been going. You've got no responsibilities here, no dumb kid to watch, no track team to coach, no secret life to maintain…what are you complaining about?"

"I like being busy."

"Why? Just enjoy it. You've finally got some time to yourself. Relax."

"I don't like it," Ian says as he rolls up the baggie of weed and tucks it inside a second baggie, "I don't like having this much time to think."

"Should be doin' more thinking," Lip teases him, tapping a finger against Ian's temple, "Work out that brain as much as you do your abs."

Ian doesn't respond to this, but he holds up the pipe before lighting it again and asks Lip, "You gonna want any of this?"

"Nah," Lip replies, "I'd rather have a drink. That is, if it's all right by the temperance brigade."

Ian shrugs, "It's your liver."

Lip pours himself a drink as Ian takes another hit and settles onto the bed to stare at the ceiling. After a few minutes of chummy silence, Ian announces, "College is boring."

"You're not in college."

"I'm  _at_  college."

"Not the same thing. Got a lot more to keep you busy when you're actually in school."

"I dunno," Ian replies, "Seems like I'm doing about as much homework as you are."

Lip feels uncomfortably exposed. He hasn't thought Ian was any the wiser to the fact that Lip hasn't really been doing any work this week. Lip maintains his cool, though, takes a sip and says casually, "It's Friday. I can save my work 'til tomorrow. You want to do somethin'?"

"Yes," Ian moans, throwing his head back against the pillow in mock agony, "This is the worst rumpspring…rum…rumpshaker? Rump or rum?"

"Rumspringa."

"Rum? Not rump?"

"Rum."

"Rumspringa?"

"Yeah."

Lip smiles a little, listening to Ian roll the word over his tongue, emphasizing different syllables each time.

"Rum _springa_ ," Ian repeats to himself, " _Rum_ springa. Rumspring- _ah_!"

Ian lolls his head toward Lip and asks once more, "Rumspringa?"

"Yeah."

"Well, this is the worst rumspringa ever. It's like you're making me be  _more_  Amish."

"Okay. What do you want to do then?"

Ian is quiet as he thinks about this. Then he suggests, "Let's call Amanda. She's fun."

Lip scowls at this. "No."

"I like her."

"Good for you. Maybe after you and Mickey finish dying your slow death, you and she can live happily ever after. Have lots of little hyper-scheduled babies."

"You're a dick," Ian remarks.

"Not news to anybody."

"Nope."

Lip shakes the whiskey around his glass a little, watching the tiny whirlpool and feeling lame. Ian's right about all of it. Lip's not doing his work. Lip has no friends. Kuz and Amanda have been his only hook-up to a social life, and now they've both moved on to better things. Lip's not only a failure, but he's a boring one at that. How the fuck did he end up here?

A message notification dings from Ian's phone, but Lip doesn't pay any attention. He's learned over the past week that Ian gets a lot of messages. Ian has plenty of friends. Stupid, mopey Ian who can't even get out of bed for days at a time has all sorts of people just falling over themselves to spend time with him, and he just acts like it's no big deal.

Lip drains his whiskey bitterly as Ian checks his phone.

Ian reads the text and laughs.

"Hey," he says, "Think I got something we can do tonight."

"Oh, yeah?" Lip asks without enthusiasm.

"Debbie just invited me to her show."

Lip squints his eyes at the remnants of the liquid sliding down the sides of the glass and asks, "What show?"

"Her band's playing at a party."

"Her band?"

"Oh, yeah," Ian smiles, "You didn't know she had a band? Mickey and I let them practice a few times at our place."

"Seriously?"

Ian nods and reads out loud as he types a response text back to Debbie, "Can I bring Lip?"

Lip waits, surprised to find himself feeling oddly pensive.

Then Ian snickers and reads back Debbie's reply, "I  _guess_."

Lip shakes his head, but he can't keep the grin off his face. "They any good?" he asks.

Ian just smiles at him.

"Well, shit," Lip says, "Guess we're goin' to a high school party tonight."

* * *

 

The party is at a house not too far from the old neighborhood, but far enough to impress Lip that Debbie's network of friends seems to be surpassing the bounds of anywhere the rest of them had ever made acquaintances. The idea makes him strangely uneasy.

Approaching the house, they note the teenagers spilling out onto the lawn, and Ian leans in to stage whisper at Lip, "Remember—they're all underage."

"Yeah, you remember that too," Lip remarks, "Still illegal when it's guys. And you're on the other side of the fence now—this time you'd be the pervert."

Ian ignores him and leads the way up the steps like he owns the house. A little blonde girl on the porch gives Lip a hungry look and he can't keep a small smile from his lips. Looking is all right.

Inside it's crowded, noisy. At first it feels just like any party, but then Lip starts to become acutely aware of his age. They all look so young, so childish. There aren't the casual Solo cups of beer that Lip's gotten used to at college parties. This is all skinny kids grasping damp bottles of cheap beer and wine coolers, trying to look casual.

"I feel like I'm forty," Ian remarks, taking up a sweaty bottle of beer from a table of them, wiping it against his shirt before he opens it.

"Half the kids here are probably the same age as you."

"Doesn't feel like it."

"Yeah," Lip agrees, surveying the room. These don't look remotely like eighteen-year-olds. Everybody looks about fourteen.

"Coach Ian!" A girl with enormous curly brown hair cries out from across the room, "What're you doing here?"

"Shit," Ian mutters under his breath.

Lip is greatly amused at the public relations smile Ian erects on his face as the girl bounds over to him.

"Hi, Hannah," Ian says in a dad-ish voice Lip's never heard him use before, "How are you?"

"I can't believe you're here."

Ian keeps that fake smile on his face and says, "Well, I just came to see my sister's band play."

"Who's your sister?"

"Debbie. Debbie Gallagher."

"Oh," Hannah says, her lip turning up in a slight sneer, "Right. I forgot."

"They're pretty fuckin' awesome," Lip says, protective resentment overtaking him, "You see them play before?"

Hannah looks at Lip with a bit of bewilderment and says, "No."

"Yeah, well you're in for a treat," Lip continues, "She's the new Taylor Swift."

Ian gives him a look.

"What?" Lip says, realizing he's puffed his chest out like a rooster at a cockfight. He settles himself back a little.

Ian shakes his head slightly and turns back to Hannah. "You know where they're setting up?" he asks her.

"Who?"

"Debbie's band."

"Oh. In the back, I think."

"Great. Thanks."

Ian starts leading the way toward the back of the house, Lip following, but Hannah calls after him.

"Will you be coaching again next season?"

That dumb fake smile reappears as Ian shrugs and offers, "Maybe!"

As they weave their way through the crowd back toward the kitchen, Lip says, "That's what your coaching gig was like? Little girls all wettin' their panties over you?"

"I just keep track of their times."

Lip snorts. "I'll take that gig."

"Yeah," Ian laughs, "Like to see you doing track."

Ian holds out an invisible cigarette and mimes an old man clutching his heart and running in slow motion.

Lip snatches Ian's beer and takes a swig. "Fuck off."

Ian shakes his head in disgust. "Taylor Swift? Really?"

"So what?"

"They're a punk band."

Lip laughs. "No shit?"

"No shit," Ian says, opening the back door and stepping aside to let Lip go first.

As they step onto the porch, they both spot Debbie simultaneously and freeze. She's standing at the back of the yard on a small concrete pad in front of the garage. She's arguing with some girl while yanking plugs out of an amplifier.

"That must be ten pounds of make-up," Lip observes.

"What's with her hair?"

"Think she's wearin' your shirt too."

"She is! She tore it all up."

Then Joaquin approaches Debbie, rests a hand on her shoulder. Debbie turns to him and her face lights up, all annoyance instantly gone. She leans in toward him and they begin to kiss.

Ian and Lip both turn their heads away, as if witnessing a car crash.

When they can bear to look again, Debbie's on her knees fussing with the amp. Another girl, just as dressed up, kneels beside her and whispers something with an intense look on her face.

"Should we go over there?" Lip asks.

"I dunno. Don't wanna make her nervous."

But Debbie spots them. The expression on her face is not exactly happy recognition, but she heads over to them with a begrudging smile.

"You didn't have to come," she says as she steps onto the porch.

"You invited us," Ian points out.

"It's gonna be a bad show. We didn't get to practice all week. Aide's being a bitch. Nobody will listen to me."

"Maybe it's time to go solo," Lip says.

Ian puts a hand on Debbie's shoulder and tells her, "You're gonna be great."

"Don't patronize me," Debbie snaps.

Ian puts his hands up in surrender, and Debbie turns her narrowed eyes on Lip.

"And don't go picking up a bunch of girls here, okay?" she says, "I go to school with all these people."

"Come on, Lip," Ian interrupts before Lip can sputter a reply to this, "Let's go get you a beer. Have a good show, Debs. We'll stay out of your way."

Lip allows Ian to lead him off the porch and toward a box of Bud Light. There's a bunch of kids hovering around it, and they look at Lip like the interloper he is as he approaches.

"Mind if I have one of those?" Lip asks.

One of the dudes gives him the evil eye, but a girl takes a can from the box and hands it to Lip.

He allows his hand to touch hers as he accepts it and he sees that telltale almost imperceptible shiver run up her body.

"Thanks," Lip says.

"Sure," she smiles. She's pretty.

Lip cracks open the can and turns to face Ian, but Ian is pointedly looking away, apparently fascinated by something on the other side of the yard.

"Sorry it's warm," the girl tells Lip.

He glances back at her and shrugs, takes another sip.

The high school guys who've been milling about begin to disperse and after they depart, the girl asks Lip, "Are you a senior?"

"Sophomore, actually."

"Really? I haven't seen you around."

"Ah, I'm in remedial classes," Lip replies, "Wood shop. Auto shop. Photo shop. All the shops, really."

"Oh," the girl replies and smiles again—it's such a sweet, carefree smile. Girls don't smile like that anymore by the time they get to college. "That's cool," she says.

"I like to work with my hands," Lip adds.

The girl nods politely, but then she gets the double-meaning and giggles. "You're funny," she says.

"And you're a little bit tipsy, aren't you?"

She smiles and holds up her thumb and forefinger, indicating 'just a teeny bit.'

Lip gives her a look of disbelief and she giggles again as she expands the space between her thumb and forefinger.

"That's what I thought," Lip says mock sternly. Then he leans in a little and asks her in a conspiratorial whisper, "Gettin' a little hard to stay standin'?"

She smiles back in reply.

"Here," Lip says, "Lemme help."

He steps beside her and puts his arm over her shoulder. Gently, he arranges her so that she is leaning against him.

Ian turns back and glares at Lip.

Lip ignores him and puts his mouth down near the girl's ear as he asks her, "Better?"

"Mmm," she replies. Then she looks up at him—beams, really—and tells him, "You have the most beautiful eyes."

"Come on, Lip," Ian interrupts, yanking Lip by the shoulder, "We gotta get a better view for Debbie's show."

"Ian…"

"Come on," Ian insists with dagger eyes. He yanks Lip again, pulling then pushing him into a reluctant forward march toward the other side of the yard.

"I wasn't going to do anything," Lip grumbles as they make it a safe distance away, "I was just having fun."

Ian doesn't say anything to this. He settles on a spot near the porch and leans back against the railing, arms crossed authoritatively. He's gone into some kind of teacherly, dad-ish coach mode surrounded by all these kids, and Lip finds it simultaneously amusing and irritating.

Lip glances back toward where the girl is still standing, but now she's talking to some jock-looking guy.

"God, I wish I was stupid," Lip remarks, "So much easier to pick up chicks when they have no expectations of you."

"You don't wish you were stupid. You wish you were still sixteen."

"Sixteen was a good age," Lip replies.

He gestures toward the crown of teenagers starting to form for the show and says, "Look at this. This is the best time in their lives, and they don't even know it yet."

Ian remains quiet and Lip looks over at him, expecting to see Mr. Serious scowling with disapproval. He just looks kind of sad, though.

"Come on," Lip goads him, "Tell me you don't wish you could be sixteen again."

Ian takes a long sip of beer then smiles bitterly as he swallows and says, "I'd give anything."

"See?" Lip laughs. He pats Ian's arm warmly and turns back toward the makeshift stage.

Debbie and her bandmates have assembled with their instruments and equipment. One of the porch lights has gone out, and it's a little hard to see them, but the girls' awkward posture makes it clear that they are terrified.

"They starting?" Ian asks.

"Dunno."

The question is answered as the girls launch into some noise that sounds vaguely like music. It's difficult to hear them, though, since no one at the party has bothered to stop talking or to turn off the speakers that are still blasting Wiz Khalifa.

"Everybody shut up!" Ian shouts, "The band is playing!"

This directive is lost in the noise, however, and has no effect. So Lip marches over to the speaker/iphone set up and unplugs the recorded music. That helps a bit, even if there's still nobody paying any attention to the band. Lip struts back over and resumes his spot beside Ian.

"Debs isn't the singer, huh?"

"Nah, I think the skanky one is the singer."

"Makes sense."

The singer's mic keeps fuzzing in and out and she's spitting out the words with some kind of affected punk accent anyway, so it's impossible to make out what she's 'singing.' The bass is also turned up way too high, making it difficult to hear Debbie's guitar. Still, watching her is quite the sight.

Debbie is pounding out the chords with immense concentration, a look on her face that could make birds drop dead out of the sky. She's also dancing a little from foot to foot and bobbing her head to whatever driving melody it is the rest of the people can't quite make out.

Lip hazards a glance over at Ian. Ian raises his eyebrows, mouth pressed tightly closed as he struggles not to laugh.

Lip grins and returns his gaze to the show.

Then Debbie does a fucking windmill.

Ian collapses against Lip, chest shaking spasmodically as he tries to keep his laughter silent. Lip squeezes his eyes shut, desperately trying to contain his own amusement. It releases in shakes and tears anyway.

"Jesus," Ian says under his breath as he manages to stand upright again. He wipes away a tear and just stands there smiling as they continue to watch.

Lip tries to sip his beer but ends up choking a little, which cracks Ian up all over again.

Lip and Ian somehow manage to drag themselves back to something resembling composure. Conversely, the scene on stage appears to be falling apart. The mic goes out completely at one point, but the rest of the girls keep on playing, much to the obvious frustration of the singer. She stomps back and begins saying something to Debbie, and Debbie, still playing, takes a few steps forward and toes the microphone cable. She pokes at it for a few more beats, then it comes screeching back to life with an ungodly hiss of feedback.

Most the party attendees cry out and cover their ears.

The singer returns to the mic to pick up the song, but after two quickly aborted attempts, she storms out of the yard.

The drummer loses the beat and stops playing. The bass player follows next. Finally, Debbie, the last hold-out, ceases playing.

The bass player covers her face and begins crying. The drummer comes around from behind the kit and hugs her. Debbie stands awkwardly with her guitar, watching them.

Then Debbie turns and looks out at the crowd. No one but Ian, Lip, and Joaquin are paying any attention.

With the sigh of a very old man, Debbie slips the guitar over her head and leans it against the drum kit. She kneels down and sets to work unplugging the equipment.

Lip glances back at Ian, but Ian looks bewildered. "Should we go over there?" Ian asks.

"Probably."

But they both hold back as Joaquin bounds up to Debbie, holding out a placating hand.

It's impossible to hear what they're saying, but Joaquin is clearly attempting to make Debbie feel better, and she is clearly rebuffing him. She yells something at him and he backs away a few paces, but then Debbie's face softens and Lip can see her mouth form the words, "I'm sorry."

Joaquin comes back to her, and they exchange a few more words. Then he gives her a hug and kisses her cheek. She gives him a little wave as he departs, and Debbie resumes packing up.

Ian moves forward and Lip follows. Debbie doesn't look pleased to see them.

"Sorry it sucked," she says, wrapping a cable around her hand, "I told you it would."

"It was good for the first part," Ian says.

"It's not your fault, Debs," Lip starts to tell her, "It was just maybe not the right ti—"

"I know it's not my fault," Debbie interrupts him, "I need a better band."

Lip smiles and places a cigarette between his lips. "That's true," he agrees as he starts to light it.

"You got a roadie too, huh?" Ian says with forced cheer.

"What?" Debbie asks and turns around. As she sees the boy hefting up her amp, she screams, "He's stealing my stuff!"

The kid takes off down the alley while the three of them stand in shock. Then Ian shoots off after him.

"Shit," Lip mutters, still astounded.

"God," Debbie cries, throwing herself down on the ground, "Why does everything have to suck so hard? I hate today. I hate everybody!"

Lip hands her his cigarette and begins jogging down the alley after Ian and the thief. He tries to run, following the sound of their footfalls which are echoing between the garages, but it's hard to get a deep breath and there's a shooting pain in his side. He clutches at his aching abdomen and walks briskly instead. He traverses several blocks until finally the sound of running is replaced with the sounds of a scuffle.

He rounds the corner of a T and finds that Ian's got the kid down on the ground in front of a garage. The kid's face and chest are bloodied and he's holding a hand to his nose and attempting to protect himself with his other arm. Ian is standing over him, cradling the amp. Ian gives the kid another kick in the side and then makes as if he's going to bludgeon the amp into the kid's head.

"Ian!" Lip shouts.

It's unnecessary, though. Ian fakes the kid out, then leans down and screams in his face, "Next time I'll really do it, asshole!"

Ian gives him one more kick before marching back toward Lip, muttering under his breath.

"You all right?" Lip asks.

"Of course I am."

"Just…seemed like you maybe went a little bit overboard there."

Ian scowls and repositions the amp against his chest as they begin walking back to the party.

"Mickey and I bought that for her," Ian explains, as if this justifies anything. Then he asks, "Where were you? You should've been my back-up."

"I'm out of shape," Lip complains, massaging the pain underneath his ribs.

Ian gives him a 'well, what did you expect' kind of look, and this annoys Lip. It's not Lip's fault he hasn't had to run from the police or storeowners or neighborhood thugs in the past year and a half. It's not Lip's fault college is all about sitting on your ass in lectures or in the library or behind a computer. Papers have to be written. Research has to be done. It's not like Lip can go jaunting off to the gym every chance he gets, like Ian. Lip has responsibilities every minute of the day.

"You really gotta cut back," Ian says.

Lip rolls his eyes at the idea that cigarettes are to blame. Ian really is a schoolmarm sometimes, not to mention hypocritical. It's not like Ian hasn't been smoking almost as much as Lip the past week.

"I  _have_  cut back," Lip replies, "I'm smokin' almost a pack less a week than I did at home. They barely let you smoke anywhere on campus."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

"Huh?" Lip asks, but he doesn't get a response because Debbie's in sight now and Ian's loping ahead of Lip, bringing her the amp like a goddamn retriever with a dead rabbit in its mouth.

As Lip catches up to them, he's surprised to find that Debbie doesn't look overjoyed. With her guitar slung over her should and cables wrapped all up her arm, she just looks tired.

"I wanna leave," she says.

"Want us to take you home?" Lip asks.

She shakes her head.

"How 'bout pie?" Ian suggests, "Fiona's working tonight, right?"

Debbie considers this for a few seconds then nods solemnly, "Okay."

Lip is not sure why, but he feels a tinge of jealousy as Ian puts his arm over Debbie's shoulder and leads her away from the scene of the crime.

* * *

 

The three of them pile into the tiny foyer of the diner and Fiona spots them immediately, her smile lighting up all the way over from the other side of the room. As she finishes with her table and comes closer, however, her smile fades.

"What happened?" Fiona asks with horror, seeing the blood on Ian's shirt.

"Don't worry," he replies, "It's not mine."

"You know, no one sayin' that has ever made me feel much better."

"We were avenging family honor," Lip tells her, "Now we have to celebrate honor well avenged. With pie."

"Doesn't look like much of a celebration," Fiona comments, putting a hand on Debbie's shoulder, "You all right, Debs?

Debbie continues to look glum as she says, "I just want pie."

"Well, you came to the right place," Fiona says, 1,000-watt smile restored. She leads them to a table and, as they sit down, she nods toward the busboy who has just emerged from the kitchen lugging a bus tub.

"Carl," she instructs, "Get these customers some water and silverware." To Lip, Ian, and Debbie, she says, "I'll be right back."

Carl rolls his eyes and stomps over to the bus station. He fills three glasses and slams them down onto the Gallaghers' table, spilling water haphazardly.

"Here," he says, throwing three rolls of silverware into the mess.

"You were born for customer service," Lip remarks, unwrapping one of the rolls and using the napkin to wipe up the table.

"I heard your show totally sucked," Carl says.

"How did you hear already?" Debbie cries.

Carl smiles. "There's a Vine going around. It's fucking hilarious."

"Where'd Fiona go?" Lip asks as Debbie throws her head back against the booth and looks like she's ten seconds away from tears.

"I dunno," Carl shrugs, "probably flirting with her boyfriend in the back. They're so gross."

"Can you go get her, please?" Lip asks pointedly.

Carl grumbles something unintelligible and trudges back to the kitchen.

"Why does everybody have to suck so much?" Debbie moans.

"Hey," Lip says cheerfully, "Not everybody. Peter Parker here got your amp back, right?"

"I wish you didn't," Debbie says, "Then I could just give up and not feel bad about it."

Ian frowns at this and Lip tries to dash in before he has all of his siblings sighing and grumbling. "What kind of pie you think you're gonna have?" he asks in a moronically upbeat tone.

"I don't know," Debbie mumbles, "I don't care."

Ian leans back and peers over at the rotating display case. "Looks like they have Boston Cream," he says, "Lemon Meringue. Apple. Think that's Coconut Cream—might be Banana Cream, though. And looks like Strawberry Cheesecake."

Fiona returns just then, order pad and smile at the ready. She really was meant to be a waitress, Lip thinks. She could sell anything.

"What kinda pie ya guys want?" she asks.

"One of everything," Ian replies.

Fiona laughs. "You know it's not free, right? Gonna come outta my paycheck."

"One of everything," Ian repeats, "I'll pay for it."

The smile drifts off of Fiona's face but is swiftly replaced with something a little less bright, but just as forced.

"Okay," she says, "Comin' right up."

Lip spies something across the room then that makes him smile. "Got some shady clientele here, huh?" he says to Fiona.

She follows his gaze and then smiles as she realizes he's spotted Liam coloring in one of the empty booths.

"He's so quiet, I forget he's here," she says, "Beats sendin' him to Sheila's, though. Don't like havin' Frank around him that much, ya know?"

Lip nods and watches as Fiona retrieves Liam and brings him over to their table. The ecstatic recognition on Liam's face as he spots them fills Lip with delight.

"Come here," Lip says, lifting Liam onto his lap as Fiona goes to fetch the pie.

"Ian!" Liam cheers, and they give each other a fistbump. Lip is pleased, however, that Liam doesn't make a break for the other side of the table, but instead settles in deeper against Lip's chest.

"How's Yevgeny?" Debbie asks Ian as she plays idly with Liam's curls.

"Dunno," Ian answers simply.

This isn't enough for Debbie, though. She sits back with a disgusted look and demands, "What are you guys  _doing_ , anyway? You're supposed to be married."

Ian takes a sip of water and shrugs. "It's complicated," he says.

"Don't say that," Debbie sneers, "I'm not stupid. You can tell me what's going on. I'll be able to  _understand_  it."

"Don't even understand it myself," Ian says, craning his neck, trying to locate where Fiona is in the process of bringing the pie, nice distracting pie.

"He said it was your idea."

This gets Ian's attention. "You talked to Mickey?"

"I called him," Debbie says, "I was gonna yell at him for leaving you. He's not supposed to do that."

"He can go wherever he wants," Ian says, eyes back on the other side of the room again, "Where's the fucking pie?"

"Debs," Lip says quietly, giving her a warning look.

Debbie glares at him but concedes to stop pushing the issue for the moment. Instead she slumps back in a huff.

Lip watches his two redheaded siblings sit in uncomfortable silence and is grateful when Liam hands him a crayon and says, "You help."

"Okay," Lip agrees. He begins coloring in a Transformer with a nice shade of blue.

"So, where's Joaquin?" Ian asks, attempting to make conversation.

"He had to babysit. He wasn't even supposed to come out to see me play. He only got away for a few minutes."

"That was nice of him," Ian says.

Debbie nods, taking up and orange crayon and attempting to get in on the action, "He  _is_  nice. He's great."

"Cool," Ian nods. Then relief washes over his face as Fiona arrives with a tray of pie slices, "Finally!"

"Sorry," Fiona says, setting the individual plates onto the table, "Had some other customers, the kind that tip."

"We'll tip," Ian laughs.

Fiona's smile in response to this is forced, and Ian catches it, his own smile falling a little.

"Well," she says brightly, "Eat up." She runs her fingers over the top of Liam's head and says to Lip, "Don't let this guy have anymore pie, though. Don't want him pukin' on the bus."

"You don't want more pie anyway, right?" Lip asks Liam.

Liam obliges by sticking out his tongue, "Yuck."

"Good man," Lip says, patting his brother on the chest.

As Fiona leaves once more, Lip keeps Liam occupied with the coloring book and Ian and Debbie start sampling the different pies.

"God," Ian says around a mouthful of Boston Cream, "You should try this."

He pushes the plate of Boston cream pie across the table, clinking up against the plate of coconut cream pie that Debbie's currently. She swallows the bite of coconut cream and takes a forkful of Boston cream.

As Debbie samples that one, Ian frowns at the sad-looking slice of apple pie and asks, "You think we should get ice cream on this?"

Debbie sets her fork on the edge of the plate and asks, "Are you manic right now?"

Ian pauses and looks up at her. "No. I don't think so."

"Then why are you acting like this? Why are you doing this?"

"I'm just trying to cheer you up."

"Not that. This stupid stuff with Mickey."

"Debs," Lip says, "Stop it."

"Why?" Debbie demands, turning her annoyance on Lip now, "Are we just not allowed to ask him any questions now? We just supposed to pretend that when he's acting weird it's fine?"

"Debbie," Lip says in a parental tone, "Cut it out."

"You know, Lip let Amanda walk away," Ian says defensively, "Nobody's accusing him of being crazy."

Debbie looks appalled as she turns to Lip, "You did?"

"Hey," Lip replies, on the defensive himself now, "It's not like  _we_  were married. I didn't even know if we were dating half the time."

Debbie throws her hands up in the air. "What is the matter with you guys?"

"Listen," Lip says, switching from the blue crayon to a magenta one and continuing on with his Transformer, "Relationships get more complicated when you're older."

"Don't do that 'you wouldn't understand' bullshit," Debbie cries, "Joaquin and I have a lot of problems and we have to work through them too, just like anybody else."

"What kind of problems could you possibly have?" Ian sneers, and Lip catches a troubling glimpse of the mounting frustrating Ian's been sitting on.

"We have lots of problems! We never get to see each other. We both have jobs and stupid families demanding all our time. He's got sports, and I've got Debate Team. None of our friends can stand each other. And we speak very different love languages."

"What?" Ian barks out a laugh, "What the hell does that mean?"

"Love languages," Debbie repeats coolly. She reaches into her bag and pulls out a purple paperback and sets it on the table. Ian and Lip both furrow their brows at the cover image of a couple embracing in the sunset.

"The Five Love Languages," Lip reads out loud, "How to Express Heartfelt Commitment to Your Mate."

"Dr. Phil swears by it," Debbie says.

"You hear that, Ian? Dr. Phil swears by it."

Ian snorts and takes a bite of cheesecake.

"Laugh all you want," Debbie says, "But good communication is  _essential_  to a healthy relationship. You wouldn't understand that, though. You guys wouldn't know good communication  _or_  a healthy relationship if it hit you in the face."

They're all quiet for a moment until Ian presses his fork down into the cheesecake, causing it to separate into four skinny little blobby bits.

"What do you care?" he asks, mushing the fork down a second time.

"I care because I want you to be happy."

"Don't worry about it," Ian replies, not taking his eyes from the cake mess.

"Fine," Debbie says, "I won't."

"Listen," Lip says, "Just 'cause you had a shitty night doesn't mean you should take it out on us. Sorry your little show was a disaster, all right? But we're not the enemies."

"No," Debbie mutters, "You're just idiots."

She shoves Lip so that he will move and let her out of the booth. As she gets out, she announces, "I'm going home."

"Hey, take Liam with you," Lip says, setting him down beside her, "I don't want him hangin' out here til two in the morning."

Debbie sighs and relents. "Come on," she says to Liam, taking his hand, "Let's go home."

After Debbie heads out, Lip takes a bite of the Lemon Meringue and watches Ian sulk over the cheesecake.

"Fun night, huh?" Lip asks.

Ian grunts and presses his fork down into the cheesecake once more.

"She'll get over it," Lip says to fill up the space, but the statement just sits there, pointless and inadequate.

Since Ian doesn't seem interested in eating the pie now that Debbie's gone and Lip has never really been much for pie, Lip starts consolidating. He scrapes the picked-over slices into two piles of mush and stacks the plates.

Ian doesn't help beyond setting his fork on the top plate. He seems to be lost in thought.

But they both look up when Fiona returns to the table and starts clearing the plates.

"I remember when I couldn't keep enough food in the house for the two of you," she muses, "Teenage boys are animals. Now look at this—leavin' behind perfectly good pie."

"Ian's watchin' his figure."

Fiona laughs at the absurdity of this statement.

Ian pays no attention to either of them, still gazing down at the space in front of him.

"Hey, we left you a tip," Lip says, pointing to the purple paperback still sitting in the middle of the table.

Fiona eyes it. "That one of Debbie's? God, she never stops reading those books. You know what she told me the other day? I have an addictive personality. But it's not drugs I'm addicted to. It's the approval of men like my father."

Lip grins and is pleased to see Ian crack a smile at this as well.

Fiona begins to carry the dishes away, but Ian calls out after her, "Where's the check?"

"Oh, don't worry about it."

"Fi—I said I'd pay for it."

"No, really," Fiona assures him weakly, "It's not a big deal. I can cover it. I get a discount."

"What the fuck's going on?" Ian demands.

Lip looks from his brother to his sister, uncertain what exactly is happening or which one of them looks more upset right now.

Fiona maintains her everything-is-fine front for a moment longer, but then her shoulders fall, and she gives in.

"I don't want your money," she explains. She shifts her weight to one hip and adds, looking away from him, "And I really don't want that money you sent over. Take it back, all right? I'm sure you and Mickey could use it."

"That money was for  _you_ ," Ian says, confused, "You and Debbie and Carl and Liam. I'm taking care of you."

"Nobody asked you to," she says.

"Who else is gonna do it?"

"I will," Fiona snaps, her knuckles going white as she clutches the dishes tighter, "It's my responsibility. Not yours. God— _you_  were my responsibility until a few months ago. I'll take care of it."

"You can't!"

Fiona recoils at this. "You're as bad as Lip!"

Lip blinks in surprise. "What the fuck did I do?"

The look Fiona gives him is her special blend of annoyance and exhaustion. "You're always going on about how I can't manage my responsibilities. You're always criticizing, acting like I'm not doin' everything I'm supposed to be doin', actin' like I can't keep a roof over everybody's heads."

"That's because you  _can't_ ," Lip explains, irritated to be dragged into her web of emotional non-logic.

Fiona glares at him. Then she turns back to Ian and hisses, careful not to let her voice rise loud enough to catch the attention of the other patrons, "You never used to do this shit. You were one I could count on not to judge me."

"I'm not judging you," Ian protests, "I'm trying to help. I always helped. Let me take care of things."

"Not like that," Fiona shakes her head, "Not like what you did to get that money. I didn't ask you to do that. I didn't ask for any of that."

All at once, the fight drains out of Ian. He turns away from her and starts putting on his coat.

Fiona sighs, "Listen. Don't worry about us. We always figure something out. You got enough to worry about just takin' care of yourself."

Ian slides out of the booth. "You ready?" he asks Lip.

"Sure," Lip says and slides out as well, slips into his coat.

"Ian…" Fiona sighs again, "Don't."

"Thanks for the pie," he says, stepping past her.

As Ian walks out, Lip takes a moment to pull on his gloves. Fiona looks to him helplessly.

"Nobody likes the truth," Lip shrugs. He gives her a kiss on the temple and says, "Night, Sis."

Then he follows Ian out into the chilly November dark. The temperature is low and dropping.

* * *

 

The next morning Lip wakes up to Ian clomping into the dorm room and kicking his gym shoes off onto the floor beside Lip's bed.

"Woo!" Ian says, swinging his arms out in a couple of stretches. He's got his running clothes on, all stuck to him with sweat. He pulls off his hat and roughs his hair.

"What fucking time is it?" Lip groans, squinting into the sunlight.

"Almost seven," Ian replies. Then he bends down and presses his frozen hands to the sides of Lip's face.

"Shit!" Lip cries, bolting up as Ian takes a step back, laughing.

"Asshole," Lip mutters, "Shit.

Ian paces, doing some more arm stretches and asks, "Wanna go get something to eat?"

"Sure. In three hours," Lip replies, working his way back into his pillow.

"I don't get it," Ian remarks, taking off his vest, and peeling his shirt over his head, "You never  _do_  anything. Jesus, you'd think you were the one's who depressed."

"Fine," Lip grumbles. He drags himself up and grabs for his cigarettes, "Let's go get breakfast."

In the cafeteria, Ian is lively and chatty, telling him about a fender-bender he witnessed on his run.

"Cops were there in less than five minutes," he says, "Can tell we're not in the Yards anymore."

"Why're you in such a good mood," Lip asks, dragging a piece of pancake through the syrup, "Last night I thought you'd pout yourself back into bed for a few more days."

"New day," Ian remarks and takes a sip of his coffee, "Got some new ideas."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah." Ian smiles, and it seems like he's going to keep these ideas to himself, but then he leans forward and says, "Fiona doesn't want my money? Fine. I'm gonna use it. Get my own place."

Lip's stomach twinges at the thought of not coming home to Ian every night in the dorm room, but he reminds himself that this is what he's been pushing for.

"Hey," Lip says, "that's great."

Ian nods. "I'm excited. Fresh start, you know?"

Lip forces a smile. "I think that's great, man. Really is."

There's a look on Ian's face as he bows his head a little, fusses with his eggs, that Lip hasn't seen in a long time and it takes a second for him to recognize it: Ian is proud—happy with himself, even.

Lip raises his juice glass and says, "To fresh starts."

Ian smiles. Only looking slightly embarrassed, he raises his coffee mug.

There are no fresh starts to be found when they return to the dorm room, however, at least not for Lip. The place is starting to resemble their old bedroom, and not in any pleasantly nostalgic way. There are dirty clothes and empty food containers piling up on every available surface, books and papers strewn across both desks. The big TV from the Milkovich house is propped up over the mini fridge, looming absurdly over the tiny room. Cigarette butts and marijuana ash coat both the nightstands, interrupted here and there by empty whiskey bottles or Ian's Powerades. One of the closet doors is off its track, from when they were horsing around earlier in the week. All they need is Carl snoring in another bunk and some crumbling plaster and they'd be all set.

Lip moves to turn on the TV, but Ian takes the remote and puts it back.

"You do your work, okay?" Ian says, "I'm just gonna stay out of your hair and keep quiet all day. Got a lot of stuff I need to look into."

Lip is not pleased by this suggestion at all. Ian misinterprets his look, though.

"I know I've been distracting you from your work," Ian says, "I'm sorry. You get done whatever you need to today. Like I'm not even here."

Ian sprawls out on one of the beds and takes out his phone, immediately begins busying himself with a lot of swiping and tapping and typing.

Lip hesitates before he drags his laptop over to the other bed and plops down with dread. He wants to get a drink before he opens the computer, faces everything waiting for him inside of it, but Ian's made him feel self-conscious so he doesn't.

Instead, he lights a cigarette, decides to kill a little time and smoke it first.

Halfway through the Marlboro, however, Ian leans back on an elbow and peers at him.

"Want me to go?" Ian asks, "I can find somewhere else to be."

"No," Lip replies, snapping open the laptop, "Just gettin' my thoughts in order."

Ian nods solemnly, "So hard when there's so much in there."

"Right," Lip remarks, tapping his head, "Fuckin' Library of Congress up here. You lookin' up apartments?"

"Mmm."

"Find anything good yet?"

Ian rolls back onto his stomach, eyes on his phone once more, and says, "I'll let you know."

Reluctantly, Lip drags his eyes to the laptop screen. He stares at the smudges and fingerprints while he finishes his cigarette. When that is done, he has no other excuses.

He goes to Blackboard first, intending to fetch all the syllabi for his classes so he can get a better idea of just how many assignments behind he is, how many projects and quizzes he has missed, just how bad the damage is, how much work will need to be done for salvage.

Before he even logs in, though, his heart starts inching up his throat, blood pounding in his ears, matching the headache he's only just become fully aware is here.

He closes out the browser.

"You okay?" Ian asks without looking up from his phone.

"Huh?"

"You're breathing weird."

"I'm fine."

The paper—Stiegler's paper. Lip will work on that. It was almost done when he abandoned it. That should be an easy enough task to finish up. Start with that then he can deal with everything else. It makes sense. It makes so much sense.

As he opens the file, however, and begins reading through what he wrote before, Lip starts to feel ill. It's a terrible argument, and it's filled with holes where the research needs to go, research he doesn't remember anything about now—he'll have to wade through all those articles again. The paper is also shorter than Lip remembered, so much further from 'finished.' He'll need at least four more pages of material even if he  _can_  rework with the rest of what's here instead of tossing it out and starting over. Plus, it's gonna have to be good, perfect, even. Stiegler's given him so much extra time on it, she's gonna expect more than just bullshit. There's no way he can turn it in looking anything like what it is now; it'd just confirm her belief that he is crazy and pathetic, show her and everybody that he can't handle this…

"Gotta take a leak," Ian announces.

Lip jerks his head up and plasters on a dumb smile as Ian heads out.

The second the door is closed behind him, Lip shoves the laptop across the bed and sits as far away from it as he can.

He pours a drink.

He sips and feels better, but he still doesn't go near the laptop.

Ian's gone for a very long time. Lip pokes his head out into the hall at one point and sees him milling around the elevator lobby, chatting with somebody on his phone.

Lip ducks back inside and waits some more. He can revisit the paper after Ian gets back. Otherwise, Ian's return will just be another interruption. Better to wait and start fresh after that.

He takes a seat on the other bed, maintaining as much distance as possible from the laptop on the other side of the room. He rests his head against the wall and closes his eyes, willing his heart to get back down where it belongs and stop this pounding in his head.

"Hey," Ian says, "You should get up."

Lip startles awake, confused. It's darker in the room now—maybe an hour before sunset. Ian's peering at him, hand on his shoulder. Ian's wearing different clothes, and his hair is wet.

"Did I fall asleep?" Lip asks.

"Yeah. Seemed like you needed it, so I didn't wake you."

Lip grimaces as he sits forward, his neck painful from the awkward position he fell asleep in.

"Why's your hair wet?" Lip asks.

"Went to the gym."

"Fuck. How long was I asleep?"

"A while. You should get some fresh air."

Lip grunts at this, but looks up as Ian produces a fluorescent orange Frisbee with a Textbooks-4-Less logo emblazoned on it.

"Check it out," Ian says, "Some guy was handing them out in the quad."

"Yeah," Lip sighs, rubbing his eyes, "They're always giving out crap like that."

Ian turns the Frisbee in his hands, appraising it. "Wanna go toss it around?" he asks.

Lip is about to say no, but he catches sight of the laptop, mocking him from the other bed. Instead he scoots forward and reaches for his shoes as he replies, "What's college without Frisbee?"

* * *

 

It's fun at first. Lip feels like a kid again, tossing the Frisbee back and forth with Ian, running and jumping to catch it. Ian's laughing and enjoying himself, and his happiness, as always, is contagious. The Textbooks-4-Less guy must have passed out a hundred of the Frisbees because Ian and Lip aren't the only idiots out there leaping around in the frosty November air—they're just two more eighteen and nineteen-year-olds among many.

But then Lip starts running out of breath, huffing as he struggles to keep up with Ian.

"You all right?" Ian calls over as Lip slows down to a walk retrieving the Frisbee.

"Yeah," Lip gasps, massaging his side a little, but he can see Ian's concern from several yards away. Lip is embarrassed by his lack of stamina, but he's too exhausted to even put up a front. "Let's take a break, huh?" he says as Ian walks over.

"Sure."

Lip sits down right there on the grass, accepts Ian's water bottle gratefully. Ian sits down beside him and reclines back on his elbows, relaxed as can be. He isn't even breathing hard, hasn't broken a sweat.

"Should start dragging you to the gym with me," Ian remarks, "Work a muscle that isn't your brain or your mouth."

Swallowing a gulp of water, Lip says, "Neither of those is a muscle."

Lip sets down the water bottle and takes out his cigarettes.

Ian shakes his head and looks away as he says, "You're unbelievable."

Lip takes a restorative drag and smiles a little as he pictures himself and Ian at the gym—what a disaster that would be. But then another thought occurs to him, and this one is a whole lot more appealing.

"Hey," he says, "You lookin' at places round the university?"

Ian makes a face. "This is an expensive neighborhood."

"Not if you have a roommate."

Ian stares at him.

"Me," Lip clarifies, "We could be roommates. It'd be like this—" he gestures back toward the dorm, "Only better."

Ian continues to stare at him.

"It'd be great," Lip assures him, "Like we always talked about when we were kids."

Ian gives him a strange smile and offers a weak, "Maybe."

Lip laughs. "Don't worry. I won't stand in the way of your plans to fuck your way through Lakeview."

Feeling better than he has all day, Lip leans back and takes another drag. Then he says, "We should do somethin' fun tonight."

"They're having a party at Amanda's sorority house. She invited us."

"Why the hell would I want to go to that?" Lip asks.

Two dings in a row ring out from Lip's pocket, indicating incoming email.

Lip switches his cigarette to his other hand, takes out his phone, and his heart stops.

There's an email from Academic Affairs. There's also an email from the Office of Financial Aid and Scholarships.

The identical subject lines of both emails say enough. He doesn't need to read more:

_Academic Probation, Gallagher, P. R. Fall Term 2014_

Lip's eyes go blurry for a second, but then he tucks the phone back in his pocket.

It's over.

"You know what?" he says, turning to Ian with smile, "Let's do it. Let's go party."

* * *

 

Lip is dancing.

Lip is dancing, and he doesn't give a fuck. The music is good, all the girls are hotter than they've ever been, and the drinks are flowing. Nothing matters outside of how amazingly light he feels right now.

"I haven't felt this good in ages!" he shouts, "I haven't felt this good in years!"

"I don't remember the last time I saw you dance," Ian laughs.

"It's fuckin' great!" Lip says, closing his eyes and grooving.

"You're actually not bad."

"I'm fuckin' wonderful."

Ian laughs, and Lip keeps on dancing. It's a relief, actually, ruining your future. All the pressure is gone, all the weight off his shoulders. There's no more trying, no more worrying, no more responsibility. Lip has failed. And now he's free.

"I'm gonna get another drink," he tells Ian and leaves him dancing with the girls.

He hasn't been this buzzed in a while, but it feels great and he wants to keep it going. Happily, this is not a difficult task to manage. Lip scores another glass of Jack and Coke and wets his gills with it as he swims from room to room, group to group. He feels like he can finally breathe again after months of gasping on the shore. It's beautiful, this approaching oblivion.

He runs into Amanda as he's leaving the kitchen, and the sight of her makes him feel even better. He's missed her.

"I didn't think you'd come," she smiles.

"Ian loves you," he replies, "Thinks you're the cat's meow."

Amanda laughs. "He's sweet. And you're already drunk."

Lip raises his glass and says, "It's a party, right?"

"How'd your paper for Steigler turn out?"

"Fantastic."

"Yeah? She gave you the extension, then? I told you she would."

Lip sips his drink then asks, "You found a new boyfriend yet?"

"I've been taking some interviews."

He nods, takes another sip then says, "You check for balls first?"

That gets the smug look off her face.

"Don't want any of those," he adds, in case she hasn't gotten the point.

She pushes her glasses up on the bridge of her nose and says, "I'm gonna keep going on into the kitchen. You should keep on to wherever it was you were going."

He raises his glass to her once more and says, "See ya around."

She steps past him without further comment.

The party is big and sprawling. Lip doesn't come across anyone he knows for quite a while, but it doesn't matter because tonight Lip is friends with everybody.

At some point, he gets into an argument with some chick about what year the moon landing happened. She says it was '69; he insists it was '68. She's got glasses which reminds him of Amanda, and that annoys him further. He doesn't need any more know-it-all girls telling him what an idiot he is.

"I'll prove it," he says, "I'll prove it."

But his phone isn't in any of his pockets.

"Hang on," he tells her, climbing unsteadily to his feet but careful not to spill his drink, "I'll prove it."

He stumbles through the different rooms of the sorority house until he spies Ian's stupid red head. He's leaning against a sofa, watching a group of people play Rockband.

Ian stands up straighter as Lip approaches.

"Gimme your phone," Lip insists.

"What?" Ian shouts over the music.

"Your phone," Lip says, putting his mouth right up to Ian's ear, "I lost mine."

"You lost your phone?"

"Maybe I left it. Fuck it, I don't know."

Ian hands over his phone but warns Lip, "Don't go anywhere with it."

"I'm not," Lip mutters, swiping three different times before he comes into enough contact to open the home screen, "What do I want with your shitty phone? Smells like  _Milkoviches_."

Ian stands around like the phone's body guard while Lip taps sloppily around the screen, looking for the Internet.

"What're you doing?" Ian asks. Judgmental. He sounds so judgmental.

"Looking somethin' up," Lip explains, "Got a bet."

Finally he locates the icon for the browser and taps it. Then he pauses because it opens to the last screen Ian was using. It's an apartment listing website. That's right. Ian's moving on. Ian's the one getting out. Ian is the success.

Lip stares at the apartment listings, thinks about how he'll be heading back to the Gallagher house now, tail between his legs. He'll probably never leave. Get some shitty $10 an hour warehouse job, knock up some hood rat, maybe a few of them. He'll live the rest of his life as an example—See? That's what happens when you send Southside trash out into the world, fill their heads with ideas of how they're special, how they're different, how they'll make it. They can't cut it. They just fail and come back. That's what failure looks like. It looks like Frank Gallagher's boy. Really, they were foolish to expect anything else.

But then Lip spots something that makes him feel slightly superior again and slightly better.

"You idiot," he tells Ian, "These listings aren't even for Chicago."

"What?" Ian turns his attention back to Lip but quickly looks panicked as he realizes what Lip is looking at. "Gimme the phone."

"Centralia, Illinois," Lip laughs, holding the phone away from Ian, pulling it away every time Ian reaches for it, "That's, like, five hours downstate. How do you mix that up?"

Then Lip sees the look on Ian's face and realizes that there's been no mistake at all.

"What the fuck?" Lip says, "What the fuck is in Centralia?"

Ian says something, but Lip can't hear him over the music. So Ian takes him by the arm and guides him down the hall toward an emptier part of the house. Ian's face is grave, and Lip feels the bottom dropping out even lower than he thought possible. Ian is leaving. Ian is going away.

"What's in Centralia?" Lip asks again, his voice sticking in his throat. He desperately needs more lubrication.

"The satellite campus," Ian says.

And, vaguely, some information comes back to Lip. "For the agricultural science kids?"

"Yeah," Ian nods, "That's mostly what they do down there."

"But," Lip struggles over the words, trying to make sense of any of this, "Why would they send you down there?"

"They didn't. I put in for a transfer."

Lip just stares at his brother. Ian is drunk—that much is clear—but there's something else in his expression as well: desperation. Ian is pleading with Lip to understand. Oh, god. This is real.

"It's a fresh start," Ian tells him, "Like you said, only this is better. No one knows me, knows anything about me."

Ian erects a sad smile and adds, "No one down there knows who I  _used_  to be. No one'll be watching everything I do, wondering if it's really me or if it's crazy me. I'll just be a guy. No one'll be looking at me the way everybody does…"

Lip shakes his head and pushes himself back from Ian, feeling like he's going to vomit.

"No," Lip says, backing down the hall, "No. Fuck…"

"Lip, you get it, don't you?" Ian pleads, stepping toward him, "Why I can't stay here?"

Lip's heart is pounding in his ears again as Ian blocks him up against the wall and puts his face close enough that Lip can see the freckles in his irises.

"Even when I'm perfect," Ian says, his voice gone all creaky, "Even when I do everything you all want me to, you still never stop waiting for me to fuck up, do something crazy. I can feel you all just holding your breath like we used to do around mom…"

Lip can't speak. His lungs feel too tight to draw a breath.

Ian continues boring his eyes into Lip and asks again, "You get it, don't you?"

Lip swallows and whispers, "You're leavin' us again. Just like her."

Ian closes his eyes for a second then opens them again and puts on a pathetic smile. "That's the thing," he says, "When I went away before, it was all about me. When I left it was because I thought nobody could hurt me anymore. Mickey couldn't hurt me. Monica. Frank. Terry. Anybody. But I realized something—when I went away, I couldn't hurt you guys either. Just like how it was always better when Monica was gone? Lip, when I saw her the other night, that's all I could think of—why couldn't she have just stayed away? I came back because I missed you guys. And I thought maybe you needed me. But that was selfish. Nobody needs me. Just like we never needed  _her_. I should've just stayed away. It's so much better. For all of us."

Lip shakes his head with disbelief and tells him, "Mickey was right. You  _are_  losin' it."

Ian pulls a step back, looking like he's been slapped. Lip can't take one more second of those stupid, pleading idiot eyes.

"Fuck you," Lip spits, storming past him, "Have a great fuckin' time with your new life."

He turns the corner of the hallway and runs smack into Cassie, one of Amanda's sorority sisters. He's always suspected Cassie has a thing for him.

"Oh, hey, Lip," she greets him, "I didn't know you'd be here."

He starts to reply, but then he re-plots the course and tries to find his ladykiller smile. He can't, so he settles on some half-assed approximation and asks, "You wanna find a room?"

Her pleasant expression is replaced with something that is clearly disgust. "No," she says simply.

Everyone around them has witnessed this exchange, read Lip's loserdom spelled out in marquee lights.

"I was joking anyway," he mutters and stalks back into the big front living room. Fuck everybody. Fuck all of it.

He finishes his Jack and Coke in one defiant gulp and leaves the cup on a bookshelf. He takes a seat on the bottom step of the main staircase and puts his head in his hands.

"Stop it," he says out loud to his brain, trying to keep it from making him think, "Just stop it, please."

His eyes are watering up, he realizes. He can't have that. So he takes out his flask and drinks what's left in it. It's enough fortification to get him on his feet again and meandering back into the party.

The night becomes a little difficult to keep track of from there. Lip keeps finding himself in places, with people, unable to remember what came before

Some jackass bets Lip he can't down five boilermarkers in five minutes. Lip proves him wrong in three. Some other guy takes the girls' bottle of birthday cake vodka and vows he's gonna do five shots. Lip tells him he's a pussy and does seven.

Some chick is pouring them all shots of Goldschlager and Lip insists he be included.

"I lay big golden eggs," he tells them, pleased when their laughter rings back—drunk girls have the best laughter.

"But you shouldn't bet on this goose," he says, taking a cinnamon-y sip and laughing to himself, "Not this goose. This goose is cooked."

He never liked tequila much before, but now he can't remember why. Tequila is amazing. It's even more amazing when you're licking it off the lips of a beautiful sorority sister.

"I wanna roll you in salt," he tells her.

"Let's do it," she giggles, and now they're in somebody's bedroom. She's soft and wonderful in his hands and, god, she's got fucking amazing tits.

Somehow he gets his pants down and is fumbling, trying to find her, trying to grab her with every hand he has.

"How am I supposed to work with this?" she asks, giggling again, and Lip is confused until he finds that she is holding his limp dick.

He stares down at its pathetic, wrinkled little state and manages to reply, "If you were hotter, I might have something to work with too."

She knees him in the bare balls and he collapses to the floor with a whimper. He lies for a long time in the fetal position with his head half under the bed, thinking that it would be nice to just crawl under there and die, only to be found years later like the skeleton of some kid's lost hamster.

Then he's back in the kitchen, drinking beer to try and clear his head when he stumbles over a big red Igloo cooler and Amanda is there, helping him up. She's so nice. Why is she so nice to him?

"I've never seen you so drunk," she says, her voice echoing like there's some sort of effect that's been added in post-production.

And he smiles because no one's ever nice to him, no one ever likes him, but Amanda always sounds like she kinda almost does.

"You can take the Gallagher out of the Southside," he tells her, "but you can't take the Gallagher out of the…Gallagher. No—wait. Lemme try again. You can bring a Gallagher to water, but you can't make him drink. Can. You can't make him not drink. We drink a lot."

"Where's Ian?" she asks him. She's still holding him up.

"Only thing my dad ever gave me," Lip remarks, watching fascinated as the floor bends up toward him, then back down again, "Mom gave me her crazy, though. I thought she only gave that to Ian—you know, she always liked him best, she always gave me—gave him—everything. But I guess she liked me too. 'Cause I'm going fucking crazy too."

"You need to sit down."

Then Ian is there, but they're not in the kitchen. Ian is looking at him funny.

"God, it's so cold," Lip mumbles. He tries to wrap his arms around himself but can't seem to figure out how, "I'm so cold…"

"We should probably get you home," Ian says.

Lip reaches out for him and stumbles, but Ian catches him.

"Jesus, you're drunk," Ian remarks as the room swims.

Where are they? Lip looks at the strange room around him, thinks he recognizes some of it, but realizes that he doesn't. He doesn't know these walls or this carpet, this furniture, these people, all these people.

Lip tries to get to the floor—the floor would be so good right now, he's gotta get to the floor—and Ian manages to ease him down to a sit. Then Ian squats in front of Lip, peering into his face.

"I'm gonna take you home," Ian tells him.

"No, no," Lip protests sloppily, never wanting to move again.

"What did you drink?"

"Oh, god," Lip is groaning. Everything is churning. And it's so cold. It's so cold, but he can't even shiver.

He falls face-first into the carpet and vomits.

He catches a hitched breath, but it's full of stuff and then the vomit comes again.

Everything flows out of Lip in one big awful flood, and for a horrible second he can't breathe, and it feels like he's drowning, but then someone forces him over onto his side and he chokes and gets air again. Ian. That was Ian who turned him over. Ian's big hand.

"Shit, Lip, Jesus—"

Everything goes gray and silent. Somebody's slapping his face, but it's numb, distant. Lip slides under the water. It's nice and quiet here, quiet as death.

"Lip! Please say something. Lip, please…oh, fuck. Lip…Come on, you gotta breathe. Lip! Come on! Fuck, Lip…no! No no no…"

It's so quiet. Nothing matters here.

Lip slips into peace.

* * *

 

It was bright for a while. He remembers that. He remembers things being bright and white and hearing a lot of beeping. Someone shouting in the distance, screaming about something—he remembers that.

And then it was quiet. Time passed and someone touched his face. Monica. Mom. Her hand was smaller than he remembered, but maybe he was bigger. And maybe it wasn't her. It was someone else.

"I'm glad you're not dead," she says to him, puts her lips to his ear, "I'm glad you're just stupid."

She's still here.

She traces the contours of his face with the tip of her finger—it feels so nice, so gentle and nice.

"You're so stupid," she whispers.

* * *

 

"Hey."

Ian is talking, but he sounds very far away.

"Carl told you? Yeah. Yeah."

Lip tries to ask,  _"Told me what?"_  but he can't find his voice or even his eyes to open them.

"No. He's…he's sleeping. Few more hours, they said."

" _Who?"_  Lip wants to ask.

"No, I'm okay. No. No. You don't need to come. It's okay."

" _Good_ ," Lip thinks, since he can't move anyway. He can't even feel where his body is. It's like he's turned into a gas. He is argon. Ar. So noble, so inert…

Ian's been saying something, but Lip has missed it. But that's okay because now Ian is speaking again, though his voice sounds weak, like he's eking the words out of a rusty valve.

"I just needed to hear your voice," Ian says.

Lip's glad he is comforting Ian. He sounds so frightened. Lip's happy to still be the one Ian turns to.

Lip drifts off to some other plane of existence for a while, a white space without shapes or walls or things. Somewhere far off Ian is still talking, but Lip can't make out the words, and it doesn't matter.

Then Ian's voice is close, clearer again.

"I better go. My battery's almost dead and I don't have my charger."

" _Okay_ ," Lip tries to tell him without words or body, " _That's okay, Ian_. _Don't sound so shaken up._ "

"Hey—" Ian says, then hesitates before he blurts out, "Thank you."

" _You're welcome_ ," Lip thinks, so pleased to have served Ian so well.

It's quiet for a long time. Then somebody's sniffling. Lip's last thought before he drifts back to nothingness is that this is a very sad sound.

* * *

 

Fiona is glaring at him. She looks exhausted.

"That you?" she asks, "You really with us?"

"Hi," Lip says. His voice feels rusty. "Why does my throat hurt?"

"They put a tube down it."

Lip takes this in through his woozy, very sleepy brain. "I feel like shit," he murmurs.

"Good."

"Lip?" Debbie says.

Lip struggles to sit up a little and sees that Debbie is here in the room too. She's sitting in a chair beside Carl. Ian and Amanda are here as well, leaning against the far wall.

"I'm really glad you're okay."

"Thanks, Debs."

"You know what happened?" Fiona asks.

Lip rubs his eyes and pauses to note that there are a bunch of things hooked up to his arm, tubes and tapes and stuff.

"I think so," he says.

"I don't get it," Carl pipes up, "I thought this only happened to dumb girls who don't know how to drink. You're a pro, Lip."

"Everybody's got their limit," Fiona says firmly, "Just because Frank's immortal doesn't mean any of the rest of us are."

"Is it because Lip's short?" Carl asks.

Fiona turns away from Lip to face Debbie and Carl. "You guys go downstairs now and wait for me. I gotta talk to Lip myself."

Even just seeing the back of her head, Lip can tell she's giving them a  _look_. There will be no argument.

"Fine," Carl groans, pulling himself up from the chair as if it's a great effort.

Debbie rises as well. She goes to the bed and gives Lip a hug, being gentle about the IV line and the various monitors.

"I'll see you later," she tells him.

"Okay," Lip says weakly, putting his hand to the back of her head and letting it linger there as she pulls back.

When they have gone, Amanda and Ian whisper something to each other then Amanda says, "We're gonna go grab some coffee. We'll be back."

Lip watches them go. Now it's just him and Fiona.

"Why'd you bring the kids?" Lip asks.

"I wanted them to see this."

Lip puts his head back and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. He can't look at her. He also can't find any words.

Finally, he says, "I'm sorry."

Fiona tries to smile, but she's starting to cry at the same time and she turns her head away.

When she turns back to him, she's got her smile fully affixed. She pats his hand and says, "Well, good. Now rest up. We got an early meeting in the morning."

It takes Lip a beat to realize what she's talking about then he contorts his face in outrage.

"Oh come on," he says, "Stop being overdramatic. This was an accident. This isn't some problem. I had a shit day, and I took it too far, okay? Won't happen again."

Fiona fixes him with her eyes and Lip feels tiny under their weight.

"I don't know if you really did do any permanent damage last night," she says, "Which, you know, they said was a real possibility—but you need to gather up whatever you've got left of that great big brain of yours and use it."

She leans in over the edge of the bed and continues, in a steady, unwavering tone, "I am not going to sit around and watch this happen. You can either listen to me—listen to us—and start taking this seriously, or you can go off on your own and keep pursuing your dreams of the gutter. But you do not get to stay around them and do this. I will  _not_  do that to them. If I can protect them from Frank, I can protect them from you. I don't want to, but I will."

She waits for him to say something, but when he doesn't, she asks, without a hint of yielding, "So, are you gonna be ready when I take you to the meeting tomorrow?"

"I can't," Lip replies coolly, "I have class."

"Not at eight a.m. you don't," Fiona replies, "I already got your whole schedule from Amanda."

Fiona's face brightens at the sight of Lip's consternation.

"I like that one," she says, "She's got a head on her shoulders."

"Why is she here?" Lip complains, eager to change the subject in any way possible.

Fiona shrugs. "She saved your life. If she and Ian weren't there, I don't know what woulda happened to you. Think that buys her free admission to this circus for a while."

Ian pokes his head into the room, and Fiona waves him in.

"I gotta get back to the kids," she says to Lip. She kisses his forehead and whispers, "I'll see ya at seven-thirty."

Ian stands uncomfortably and watches as Fiona gathers up her things and leaves.

After she is gone, he asks Lip, "How you feeling?"

"Pretty shitty. Kinda drugged, though. Dunno. Embarrassed? How am I supposed to feel?"

"Amanda's gonna drive you back when they let you out in a few hours," Ian says, "She's probably gonna stay with you a couple days, keep an eye on you."

Lip looks up at this. "You're not gonna be there?"

"I gotta go home, Lip. I can't keep pretending we're still kids. I gotta get back to my life."

Lip inspects the clamp-like monitor attached to his index finger and asks quietly, "You really serious about leavin'? This thing downstate for real?"

Ian folds his arms and explains, "There's a retirement scheduled for spring. They're gonna put my name on the list of the candidates to replace him."

"So, if they offer it, you're gonna go?"

"I asked for it, didn't I?"

"What about Mickey? You gonna throw him out with the bathwater too?"

Ian is quiet. He chooses not to answer this question, instead saying, "Don't tell anybody about it yet, okay?"

Lip looks at him with indifference and says, "Hey, it's your life. None of my business."

Ian nods. He lifts his coat from the back of one of the chairs. As he slips his arms through the sleeves, he says, "You really scared me."

"You scare me too. All the time."

Lip doesn't get any reply to that. Ian takes his hat and gloves from his pocket, starts to pull out the fingers and ready the gloves for wearing.

Then Lip asks, "It was fun, though, wasn't it? Before it all went to shit?"

"This week? Staying with you?"

"Yeah."

"Yeah," Ian agrees sadly, "But I didn't like seeing how you are now. You're not doing good, Lip."

"I'll take care of it," Lip says, "Don't worry. I got everything under control."

"You still really gonna tell me that?"

"I'm not bullshittin' you. I'm serious. I get it."

"I hope so," Ian says, acknowledging Amanda with a little head nod as she comes into the room.

Then Ian looks Lip dead-on as says, "'Cause we both gotta grow up now. It's time."

The two brothers are silent, staring each other down as these words sink in. Ian blinks first. Then he turns away.

"See you later," Amanda says to Ian as he heads out.

She arranges things on the little table beside Lip's bed, moving items around to make room for her paper coffee cup, stacking Lip's smaller belongings so they won't get lost under all the hospital debris.

Then she plops herself on the edge of the bed and asks, "How we doing?"

Lip looks at her and just feels tired. He can't hold all of it inside anymore, and there's something reassuring about her energy.

"I'm on academic probation," he confesses, "I'm gonna lose my scholarship."

"I know."

He cocks his head at her in confusion.

"I found your phone," she explains, "On the couch. I read all your email. Your text messages. I was surprised I didn't find any dick pics. Your restraint impresses me."

She laughs at his look of outrage.

"Hey," she says, "If you don't want people reading your stuff, you should password protect it, genius. Or better yet, don't lose your phone."

He exhales deeply, glad for the moment to still be feeling the lingering effects of the sedation. Or whatever it was they've given him. "It's all over," he says.

"Mmm, maybe, maybe not," she shrugs, "I think there's still some things we can do. Don't know what they are yet, but I bet there's some options. And if you do have to drop out? Big deal. Take a semester off. Find yourself. It's a very trendy thing to do. Very trust fund."

That actually makes Lip smile, despite everything.

"I'm about as far as you can get from a trust fund kid," he says.

"I know," Amanda says, "That's partly why I like you."

Lip is quiet for the moment, toying with the tape on his arm. Then he asks her, "Why're you here?"

"Because I'm an idiot who still cares about you. But I'm just here as a friend, okay? No benefits."

Lip finds it hard to speak again, but manages to say, "Okay."

"Good," Amanda smiles. She produces a legal pad from her bag, climbs into the bed, and wedges in beside him.

"All right," she says, readying her pen, "Let's start figuring out how we're gonna fix everything."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to everyone who continues to stick with this ridiculously long story. Your readership, kudos and comments make me so happy and really do keep me going on this. I appreciate every one of you so much.
> 
> And once again, special thanks to the beta of the year, the lovely Avalonia. This story simply would not exist without her bottomless patience, kindness, and amazingly spot-on suggestions. XOXO


	9. Pale Blue Dot

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As is customary, I need to start with a whole list of apologies. First of all, I am terribly sorry for the very long delay in updating--real life was problematic. Secondly, this is not actually the final chapter that I promised--it was getting far too long and rather than post a 50k chapter (insanity!), I broke it into two. So if this seems like a dull chapter full of table-setting, I apologize. If you manage to trudge through this and stick around to the next one I can promise there will be a lot more action. Lastly, I want to truly, truly apologize for the comments I still haven't replied to. I've been just a mess of anxiety the last few months and kept psyching myself out every time I sat down to write comment replies because there is simply no way possible to express how grateful I am for all y'all and how completely touched and floored I am by the incredibly thoughtful comments you guys leave. I re-read those comments so many times and really do love connecting with you guys. I'm sorry I am a messy, awkward weirdo who doesn't know how to properly say thank you. Please, please know how much I appreciate every one of you.
> 
> Lastly, shout-out to the incredible Kat aka Avalonia. This chapter would not exist without her endless patience, kindness, and brilliant Beta skills. <3 

Lip takes a drag off his cigarette then hunches his shoulders, trying to block out the icy November wind. He sips off his coffee, but it's already gone lukewarm in the Styrofoam. He makes a face and tosses it, glad to be able to put that hand, at least, in his pocket.

"Look who's actually here on time," Fiona says, coming up from behind him.

He turns, surprised that she has not come in the direction he's been watching, but he immediately sees why. She's carrying two big coffees, apparently having gotten off at the earlier stop two blocks the other way because that one has a Dunkin Donuts in the station.

"Got room for another?" she asks, indicating with a slight nod the garbage can where he's just tossed his other coffee.

"If it's hot, sure."

"Hot enough you can sue them if it spills."

"Just how I like it."

He takes a sip and offers her a cigarette, but Fiona shakes her head.

"Tryin' to give it up," she explains.

"Is there anybody in this family not on a self-improvement kick?" Lip remarks, "It's gettin' a little weird."

"One of these days," Fiona says, "I'm gonna find some happy medium between self-improvement and self-destruction."

"Good luck."

Fiona grins over the top of her coffee and asks, "You hear Ian tossed out all the pop and junk food at the house? Thought Carl and Debbie were gonna murder him."

Lip shakes his head at this and surmises, "He's got too much time on his hands."

"I think he's lonely."

Lip doesn't say anything in response to that, just takes another drag. When Ian moved his stuff out of Lip's dorm room, he headed not to the Milkovich house, but to the Gallagher house. And Lip hasn't heard a peep from him since, not a call or a text…nothing. Ian's obviously not that lonely.

"When do you get off for Thanksgiving?" Fiona asks, knowing somehow that it's time to change the subject.

"Break starts tomorrow," Lip replies, "Off 'til Monday."

"You gotta work the cafeteria over the weekend?"

"Nah, whole campus is closed. Kickin' everybody out."

Fiona's face lights up. "You comin' home then?"

"Guess so."

She's thrilled, he can tell. It's the first time in ages they've had a full house.

"Ian took your bed, though," Fiona informs him with wicked amusement, "You're bunkin' with Carl and Liam."

"We honoring squatter's rights now?"

"You wanna pick a fight about beds on Thanksgiving, be my guest. Bring that Amanda, though," Fiona says, "and I bet she could talk your way in."

Lip doesn't say anything in response to this, despite it being true. He knows Fiona's angling to get it out of him whether or not he'll be bringing Amanda to Thanksgiving dinner, whether this indicates they've gotten back together. Lip refuses to give his sister the satisfaction of an answer, though.

"She's invited to come, you know," Fiona says, going a little more obvious.

"She'll be in Miami," Lip replies, pleased to be able to give her an answer that indicates nothing about the status of his relationship.

"Oh. You takin' her to the airport?" Fiona digs a little deeper for clues.

"She's lettin' me use her car while she's gone so yeah."

"Oh."

Lip can practically see Fiona dusting off this nugget, turning it in the sunlight, trying to decipher any information that may be contained within. Keeping her at arm's length from his personal life is never not entertaining, mostly because he knows it drives her crazy.

He drops his cigarette butt and squishes it under his boot as a trickle of people start filing into the building, heading for the church basement.

"You really makin' me go to this?" he asks her.

"Hey, at least this one I get to go to  _with_  you," she says, linking her arm into his.

As she leads him after the others, Lip wills himself to hold his tongue. AA yesterday was bad enough, but Al-Anon today promises to be even worse. He doesn't know how much more he can take sitting an hour on a fucking folding chair while a bunch of sad sacks whine about how they just can't control themselves, how it's all mommy and daddy's fault, how Thanksgiving is going to be so hard for them with everyone else drinking wine…Lip is nothing like these losers, and it's humiliating that anyone should think he is.

A week, he figures, then Fiona will have a new crisis to distract her, and Lip will have her off his back. For the time being, though, he's just trying to keep his head down and his mouth shut. He's got to pay some kind of penance for his massive fuck-up this past weekend.

They've got cookies at this meeting, already an improvement on yesterday. Lip takes a couple, even though Amanda brought him breakfast this morning and he's not really hungry. The cookies will be something to do.

He watches Fiona take a few too, wrap them up in a paper napkin and tuck them into her purse. He's certain Liam will be getting those cookies later.

They find two chairs together near the back, and settle in. Lip is grateful for the coffee and the cookies. He lingers over both, sipping the coffee, breaking off miniscule bites of the cookies. All through the meeting he maintains a 1,000-yard stare at the floor while people take turns sharing their stories—pathetic or banal, always one or the other—and he hopes that nobody cries. For the second day in a row, he finds himself staring down at his coffee and contemplating the irony that these meetings just make him desperately wish he had a little something in his cup.

"How the hell do you keep sitting through these things?" Lip asks Fiona as they walk toward the el afterward, "They're not even requiring you to go anymore."

"It's not so bad," she says, "Makes me feel better."

"Why? Nobody in there said anything interesting. All their sob stories? Big deal. Come over to our house. Coulda seen that shit every day growin' up with Frank."

"That's the point."

"What good is it?" he scoffs, "All the shit they say? All their  _realizations_? It's all fuckin' obvious. Nobody in there said anything that wasn't common goddamn sense. We  _know_  all this already. Why the fuck do we gotta get up at the crack of dawn and sit in a moldy-ass basement listening to a bunch of crybabies parrot platitudes? The hell good does that do for anybody with half a brain?"

Fiona is quiet, and Lip's annoyance is mostly replaced with regret.

"Sorry," he says, taking out a cigarette to try and force himself to keep his dumb mouth shut, "I don't mean to shit on it if it's doin' somethin' for you."

"I'm not an idiot," Fiona says, locating her gloves and pulling them on as they walk, "I know there's no earth-shattering discoveries goin' on in there, but…I don't know. I thought the same thing you did at first too. I couldn't wait to get outta there. But then when my mandated time was up? I realized I didn't really wanna stop goin'. Makes me feel kinda…I don't know…less overwhelmed? Less like my life's some embarrassing freak show."

She looks ashamed as she admits this, and Lip feels twice as bad.

"That's good," he says, trying to sound supportive, but he can hear his own voice and he knows it's sounding forced, patronizing even.

Fiona reaches over and snatches Lip's cigarette. He thinks she's going to stub it out—he wouldn't be the least bit surprised, the way she's been treating him since  _The Incident_ —but instead she takes a deep drag, closing her eyes and savoring it. It's clearly the first one she's had in a bit.

"Thought you were quittin'," he comments as she hands it back.

"Rome wasn't built in a week."

"Day."

"Wasn't built in a week either," she laughs.

Lip smiles around his cigarette. He tells himself he can put up with this a little bit longer, hold off on complaining until she moves on to other things and forgets about dragging him to this nonsense. He owes her that at least.

"You know," Fiona says, "Debbie got somethin' out of it too."

Lip raises his eyebrows. "The hell was Debbie doin' at an Al-Anon meeting?"

"She asked me if she could come. Went to a couple meetings, actually."

"Jesus, that kid," Lip mutters.

"She talked too."

"Oh, yeah? Which one of Frank's greatest hits did she tell? Her fifth birthday party? Christmas 2010?"

"Didn't talk about Frank," Fiona says, "Talked about you."

Lip stops short. "The fuck? When was this?"

"Couple weeks ago. After you showed up to the house wasted that night? Cryin' about some singer or somethin'? Said she called Ian 'cause you were scaring her so bad."

"Shit. I didn't mean—she's overreacting. That was a one-time thing."

Fiona snorts. "Obviously not."

She swipes Lip's cigarette once more and continues walking toward the station, but he remains behind, frozen in place. His lungs feel like they're disintegrating.

Fiona pauses and turns to face him. "Come on," she calls, "If you're late gettin' back to campus, Amanda's gonna be on  _my_ ass."

Somehow, Lip's legs begin to move without his command, following Fiona's orders instead. He doesn't really notice, though. He doesn't really notice anything the whole trip back, his body going through all the necessary motions, but his brain lost deep inside.

* * *

 

One of the earliest memories Lip has happened when they first started living in the Cavalier. He doesn't know where Ian or Fiona were—maybe at the White Hen—but it's one of the few times he can remember it just being him with Monica and Frank. Lip can count on his hand the number of times he got to be the only son, and back then it still felt special. Perhaps that's why the memory is so clear.

They'd gotten fried chicken that night in a big red bucket, a treat for sure. Lip seems to feel, looking back, that they were celebrating something.

Stray dogs hung around the Park 'n Ride. Some of them were sweet, and the kids liked to play with them. Some of them were mean, and the kids knew to stay away from those. All of them were hungry, though, and they all came around after the smell of chicken that night.

Lip was sitting on the gravel beside Monica, still licking the grease and salt from his fingers. Frank was sitting on the passenger seat with the door propped open, with his big legs—he seemed so tall then—extended into the gravel. He held the bucket in his arm as he picked over the last bits of meat.

The dogs sniffed at a hesitant distance, and Frank teased them, coaxing them closer with a grin.

"Don't, Frank," Monica said, "Dogs can't do chicken bones."

"Dogs know their way around bones, Monnie." Frank sneered though he was still smiling, which made Lip smile too, "You ever hear the phrase 'like a dog on a bone'? You ever  _see_  a picture of a dog? Snoopy? Rin Tin Tin? Fuckin' Lassie? Dogs like bones."

"Not chickenbones," Monica protested, "They'll choke."

"Bullshit," Frank laughed, "That's your new age '90s parenting talking. That's why playgrounds are padded, peanuts are banned, and every kid from here to Tennessee's got  _ADHD_. Kids can handle a couple of bruises, let me tell you, and dogs can handle some fuckin' bones. Jesus, what next?"

The dogs came closer, close enough that Frank could toss a wing out onto the gravel and they all lunged for it.

"Frank!" Monica shouted as Frank chuckled and watched the dogs fight.

Lip laughed too because it must be funny.

But then Monica was up on her feet, trying to wrest the bucket away from Frank. He stood up too, yanking the bucket back but pulling too hard. The chicken remnants went flying.

Lip watched in awe as the bones flew up (Chicken bones could fly! Of course they could! They were bird bones!) then fell down into the gravel where the dogs lunged on them.

There was an eruption of snarling and fighting as the dogs began to attack each other, even worse than before. Lip climbed to his feet to get out of the way and was so distracted by the dogs that he didn't notice at first that Monica had started to hit at Frank.

Lip noticed when Frank started hitting her back, though.

With one particularly strong blow, Monica stumbled back against the car and Lip could see that Frank wasn't smiling anymore.

"Crazy cunt," Frank muttered, pushing his limp hair out of his face, "You see any dogs chokin'? Huh? Look at 'em all…"

Frank gestured at the snarling knot of dogs and stood, watching them for a moment. Then he reached into the passenger's seat to retrieve his bottle and stalked away across the parking lot without another word to either of them.

Lip didn't realize he had ducked behind the back fender until Monica was there, squeezing him into a sloppy hug.

"Don't cry, Lip," she said, even though he wasn't crying.

She knelt to look him in the eyes and fixed his hair, pushing it back from his face.

"Aw, don't be mad," she told him, "He's really very smart. He just drinks too much sometimes. He's so smart, though. He's the smartest person I ever met. Don't be mad at him."

But Lip wasn't mad. He didn't know how he felt. He didn't know if there were words for it.

He tried to reach out and push Monica's hair out of her face too, since that seemed to be the thing to do, but she laughed and put her head back, letting her hair fall off her face on its own. It was red and pretty under the parking lot floodlights.

"My chubby little baby Frank," she'd purred, putting a hand to the side of Lip's cheek and rubbing it gently with her thumb.

Her green eyes drank him in, and Lip had never felt so adored.

"You're gonna be so smart too when you get big," she told him, "I can tell already."

Lip's phone starts buzzing in his pocket, startling him out of the memory. He takes it out and peers at it. It's Carl.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Lip answers sharply.

"It's just gym class."

Lip can't really argue with that, so he allows the conversation to continue. "What's up?"

"Can you get rid of Ian?"

"What?"

"Take him back to your place. Please."

"Carl…"

"He's acting like he's our dad, or something. He wants to know where I'm going  _all the time_. He keeps asking me about my homework. He's trying to make us drink  _water_  instead of pop. He threw away all the good food…"

Lip lowers his voice as he asks, "You think he's manic?"

"No, I think he's an asshole. Can't you take him back with you?"

"Jesus Christ," Lip mutters, "Just tell him to fuck off."

"No," Carl whispers, "I can't."

"Why? It's Ian."

"Cause what if he gets sad and tries to kill himself? I already made Mickey go away."

Lip puts a hand to his temple, closes his eyes. "Listen," he says, "You didn't make Mickey go away. And Ian's not gonna hang himself because you told him to leave your fuckin' Doritos alone."

"But what if he does?"

"He's not. I promise. Just…just be as much of a dick to him as you normally would. He's not made of glass."

"He's being weird."

"Monica weird?"

"No. He's like…trying to tell everybody what they should do but, like, he's being  _nice_  about it. It's creepy."

"Well, just deal with it, okay?"

"Are you coming home for Thanksgiving?"

Lip is surprised by the abrupt shift in topic. "Yeah."

"Good, then you can take him back with you."

"No. He's not gonna go, anyway."

"Why? 'Cause you're an alcoholic and it's depressing?"

"No. I'm not—he's not…no. He just…doesn't like me anymore. Doesn't give a shit."

"Lucky you. So, what are we gonna do?"

"It's not my problem," Lip says, noting with some unease that his stomach has started churning dangerously. He does his best to ignore it and throw this current issue at somebody else. "Why don't you call Mickey? Let him handle it."

"I'm not supposed to call him anymore."

"Says who?"

"Ian. He said I'm distracting Mickey every time I call."

"Distracting him from what? Not like he's working on the Manhattan Project up there."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. Go back to class. You don't wanna end up having to take gym class in summer school. Sure you're gonna have a full enough schedule as it is."

"Lip, come  _on_. Fix it."

"Tell me when you have a real problem, and I will," Lip snaps, ending the call.

He takes a couple of shallow breaths—his lungs feel too tight to take a deep one—and looks up just in time to realize that they're pulling into his stop.

His phone starts buzzing again as he dashes through the doors and makes his way for the steps to the street. He glances at the phone, expecting it to be Carl again, but now it's Debbie.

"Aren't you supposed to be in school?" Lip snarls, answering the call.

"It's just Auto Shop."

Lip frowns in confusion. "Why did you sign up for Auto Shop?"

"I wanted to be well-rounded. And someday if I have a car, they won't be able to rip me off at the mechanic."

He starts to say something back then realizes he has absolutely no response for this. Instead he asks, "Why're you calling?"

"I know Fiona says we're not supposed to give you anymore stress right now, but you  _have_  to do something about Ian. He's driving everybody nuts."

"Wait—Fiona said what?"

Debbie groans impatiently. "She said we're not supposed to put anymore stress on you right now because it might drive you to have a relapse. But this is important. You have to make Ian go back with you."

Lip grinds his teeth in an attempt to modulate his temper.  _Relapse_. Like he's a fucking crack fiend jonesing for a fix. He does his best to set this indignity aside and not take his infuriated ego out on Debbie.

"Just deal with it," he says tersely, "You guys could stand to eat less crap anyway."

"I don't care about the food! God! This is serious!"

"What're you talking about, then?"

"He lectured me about using birth control! And marriage! In front of Joaquin!"

Lip snickers.

"It's not funny!"

"What exactly did he say?" Lip asks, unable to imagine Ian giving a lecture on anything, let alone birth control. That's one of the few problems Lip can think of that Ian will never have to deal with.

"Ughh," Debbie moans, "Just how we have to both be  _so_  careful and how I'll  _totally_  wreck my life if I don't, and that there's plenty of time for babies later. Like, how dumb does he think I am? Oh, god, then he told me not to get married til I'm at least twenty-five. He said that! While Joaquin was right there!"

Lip struggles to temper his amusement in the face of Debbie's rage. He's grateful she can't see him.

"You have to do something, Lip. You know he made Fiona cry?"

"What?"

"He did. He doesn't know it because she waited til after he left, but she totally cried."

"The fuck did he do to her?"

"He told her that she should take a break from dating for a while. He said she needed to focus on herself instead of all these stupid guys. And then he dragged me and Carl and Liam into it, like every stupid thing Carl does is Fiona's fault..."

"Really?"

"Yeah. That was  _after_  he told her she has to stop letting us eat garbage and that they're gonna quit smoking together. Oh, and he signed Liam up for swim class at the Y and got Sheila all excited about taking him. He didn't even ask Fiona. She's really pissed about that."

"Why the hell did he do that?"

"I don't know. He's on this big kick about how we all need to be more physically active. Did you know heart disease runs in our family? He says Monica told him that. Why do only bad things run in our family?"

"Shit," Lip sighs, rubbing his temple again. His head is pounding like a siren and his heart is inching up his throat.

Debbie continues, "I don't know where he gets off acting like he's such an expert. He screwed everything up with Mickey, and you almost died when he was supposed to be keeping an eye on you. I don't think he's in any position to be giving everybody else advice."

"Hold up—what? He wasn't keeping an eye on  _me_. I was keeping an eye on him."

"That's not what he said. He told me you were really lonely and depressed and he was worried about you. And look at what a good job he did with that! How are you, anyway? Are you still sober?"

"I'm not lonely and depressed. Where's he gettin' this crap from?"

"Then why did you drink yourself into a coma?"

Lip scowls at the phone. "Don't exaggerate. It wasn't a big deal. It was just a really bad day. I'm fine now."

Debbie is silent, which makes Lip feel desperate and panicked. Everybody's got the wrong idea about everything. This Bizarro World interpretation of him is spinning rapidly out of control.

"Debbie, listen to me. Look at Frank and look at me. I'm nothing like that, all right? One screw up doesn't make you an alcoholic."

"I should get back to class. We're gonna be switching periods soon."

"Debbie—don't worry about me. I'm fine. I'm sorry I scared you, but I'm fine. And don't worry about Ian. I'll…I'll take care of it."

"I have to go."

"Debbie—"

But she's ended the call. Lip stares at the phone a long moment before he slips it back into his pocket and trudges on toward campus.

Fresh worry has set in and Lip's brain goes for it with gusto as if delighted to be running the same familiar ruts. Ian. Fiona. The kids. School. Ian. Fiona. The kids. School. Ian. Fiona. The kids. School. God, it's all so fucked.

As he reaches campus and starts the short path to his dormitory, the shame starts to become overwhelming. He wishes he could shuck off his skin, kick it under one of the benches and continue on, an anonymous man of bone and muscle, like one of the preserved bodies he saw at the Museum of Science and Industry a few years back. Ian had somehow finagled the tickets for Lip because they kept seeing posters for it on the CTA, and he thought Lip would find it interesting. He was right too.

But that was back when Ian still gave a shit about Lip, still liked him, looked up to him, even. Those days are long gone, that much is clear. Now they're all following Ian's lead, writing Lip off as pathetic. And when they find about this Academic Probation business, when Lip's scholarship is formally stripped and he returns to Wallace Street a certified failure…well, then Ian can be smug for having known all this time that 'Lip the Genius' was a crock of shit.

Lip trudges on in his stupid, inescapable skin.

He makes it up to the hall outside his room, and there he pauses. Ever so slightly, Lip's heart lifts a little, knowing that Amanda is waiting for him on the other side of that door. Maybe because Amanda has never had any expectations of Lip, has always known he is a fraud and a fuck-up, but for some reason, she's the only person who doesn't make him feel ashamed and anxious right now. It's a relief to be with someone who has no expectations of you, who isn't offended by the ever-flowing disappointment you have on tap.

The sense of momentary ease continues as he lets himself in and sees her, head bent over her laptop, working calmly. He feels peaceful, taking in her shiny, dark hair, the way the sunlight hits across the back of it, casts her in a Renaissance painting halo. She's wearing that pale pink cashmere sweater that he knows from past experience is shockingly soft to the touch, like no other textile he's ever encountered in his life. Everything about her is so tidy and put-together.

"What's wrong?" Amanda says as soon as she looks up and sees his face.

And the stress returns. Lip doesn't even bother to ask her how she knows something's wrong. Amanda knows everything. The only trouble now is choosing which problem to even mention.

"Something's up with Ian. Think he's gone off kilter again," he says, throwing himself into his desk chair, "I gotta take care of it."

"Okay. Well, he'll still be like that tonight, right?"

"Probably."

"Then worry about it tonight when you go home. You've got other stuff you need to focus on today."

He sighs and hangs his head back, closes his eyes as he swivels his chair left to right and back again. He doesn't want to deal with any of it.

"You want a drink?" Amanda asks.

"God yes," he replies with gratitude in his voice before he realizes that she wasn't offering; she was checking.

She doesn't say anything. He doesn't either.

Then Amanda closes the laptop with a business-like snap and puts on her tour guide voice.

"All right," she says, "We have to meet with the Dean and the Chair at one. But before that, we've got to meet with Student Support Services—that appointment's at eleven, the guy's name is Mike something—I'll look it up. And between those two, we're meeting with your advisor and Cheryl Broderick from Scholarships and Financial Aid. That's at twelve fifteen over in the A building…"

Lip sinks lower in his chair listening to her rattle on. All the comfort he felt at seeing her has dried up. He'd much prefer to be alone right now. He'd much prefer to just crawl under the bed and wait there in the cool, forgiving dark until every other person on the planet just goes away and forgets about his existence. His stomach feels like a gurgling tar pit.

"Did you make that appointment yet?" Amanda asks, interrupting Lip's slow ooze to the floor.

He doesn't answer. Why go through the motions when she already knows?

"I can't make it for you," she says.

"I know."

"You have to do it."

"Why? It's bullshit. I'm fine with telling everybody I, you know, had a nervous breakdown or whatever—I'll tell them whatever we have to say to get all these extensions and shit,  _fine_ , but I'm not gonna go waste some poor shrink's time over there pretending like it's true. All right? We don't need to take it that far."

"We talked about this."

" _You_  talked about it. I didn't agree to anything."

"Lip, even if you don't want to go, you have to show them that you're getting things in place so you can deal with everything better and actually get the work done if they give you this extra time to do it. Which reminds me—can you get, like, a receipt or something when you go to those AA meetings? That would look really good. Oh! And we really need to get your attendance records from the past few weeks if we can so we can show them that you've been putting in a good faith effort, and not just blowing things off…"

He closes his eyes again and tunes her out. None of it's going to matter anyway. Even if they agree to give him all these extensions, let him retake his midterms, turn in his missing labs, even if all these pencil-pushing administrative assholes suddenly sprout over-developed sympathy glands, Lip isn't capable of doing the work.

All these weeks of sitting down with his textbooks or his laptop, trying to produce answers and ideas and instead finding nothing in his brain but a dried up riverbed…just the thought of trying all that again and getting further confirmation that he has finally gone full Algernon makes him go cold and nauseous. He can't deal with that again.

But there's no point in telling her since the extensions aren't going to happen anyway. Amanda lives in the world of rich people, full of favors and exceptions and rule bending. He's letting her do this because it's easier than arguing with her, but she's going to be in for a rude awakening at all these meetings. Gallaghers don't get second chances.

* * *

 

Somehow, though, Amanda makes it happen. Sitting in his button-down shirt, putting on his well-practiced humble, contrite poor person act that he's used his whole life in various public assistance offices, Lip watches wide-eyed as Amanda talks every last administrator into a corner. One bewildered secretary even mistakes Amanda as Lip's lawyer. It's not hard to see why.

Lip had been embarrassed initially when Amanda put on her little suit and heels and whipped out a crisp new binder full of notes sorted by color-coded tabs—she's got a stupid binder for everything—but then it quickly became clear that this research wasn't just for show—it was ammunition. Amanda knows the institutional policies inside and out, quotes from them freely. She seems to know her stuff better than a lot of these dopes they're meeting with.

Even more impressive, she also seems to have an innate sense of how to play people. Her demeanor, her posture, her tone, Lip watches her shift them ever so subtlety to match each situation. She knows when to play for sympathy, when to be pushy, when to pull back. It's a fascinating performance. And hot as hell.

"I hope you're taking notes," Amanda whispers to him as they head out of one office and begin to cross the campus for their last appointment.

"I wouldn't even know where to begin," he says, meaning it as a compliment, but Amanda stops short and glares at him.

"What?" he asks.

"I'm not doing this a second time for you. All right? You watch. You damn well better learn. This isn't going to be the last time in your life you're going to need to work the system."

He smiles and shrugs, "I don't know that I have your particular talents."

Amanda rolls her eyes. "Of course you do. Anyone can do this. You just have to use your brain and pay attention."

She can see his doubt. She pushes her glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighs.

"Your problem," she says, "is that you're too caught up in your own head. You're so worried about your own ego and your own insecurities that you don't pay enough attention to what's going on with everyone else. And then when you do, all you're looking for are weaknesses. You spend all your time searching out everybody else's weaknesses and trying to exploit them. But where you fuck up is that you aren't looking for advantages. They're all around you if you're smart enough to notice them. I mean, getting what you want isn't always about hurting someone else. It's hardly ever about hurting someone else, actually. Real success is convincing people that what you want is exactly the same thing as what they want."

Lip is at a loss for words. He gazes at her earnest face, taking in her frustration and her determination and her goddamn need to help.

"You're a viper," he whispers.

"I read  _The Art of War_  at a very young age."

"That explains so much."

"Come on," she says, dragging him by the arm, "Being late never looks good."

At the last meeting, Lip is caught off guard. After shaking hands and sitting down across from this latest administrator—another self-satisfied prick in a polo shirt—Amanda crosses her arms and says nothing. The administrator's fake smile falters slightly in confusion. Lip glances at Amanda, but she just tightens her expression and gives Lip a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. It's his turn now. Shit.

Lip clears his throat and faces back toward the administrator, mind racing, trying to remember which guy this is, in what office, what outcome they're supposed to be here to beg for.

Then Amanda scoots the open binder into his lap and taps a bullet point on her printed agenda of meetings.

"Right," Lip says, looking up from the binder with confidence he doesn't really feel, and launches into the eighth or ninth version of his story they've told today.

The administrator continues to wear that fake-ass smile, unchanging throughout Lip's entire story, and Lip's irritation grows. This whole exercise is going to be pointless, all because of this asshole.

Just as Lip trails off in his story and is about to make a smart remark to get under this douchebag's skin, get back at him for having all the power and being such an unsympathetic moron, Amanda butts in. Placing a hand on Lip's knee to silence him, she takes up the telling of the story, bending it ever so slightly, speaking to this prick like he is a kind, benevolent king.

Lip sits back in his chair, realizing Amanda has just saved them from certain disaster. He starts to smile a little bit, but she seems to sense this and digs her nails into his knee. Lip drops the smile before it can cause any damage.

Then Amanda tosses the tale back to Lip and he carries on, following her lead. He takes on her deferential tone, looks to this man beseechingly, and realizes that playing to this guy's ego makes him moldable as butter. For the first time in ages, Lip feels powerful.

When the dust settles, they haven't gotten everything they wanted—there's far too much bureaucracy to machete through in one afternoon the day before a holiday weekend—but they've accomplished far more than Lip expected. They'll allow him to finish out his courses, get extended time on his papers and labs, have his absences wiped from the record, and be able to work on extra credit projects to help mitigate his atrocious midterm grades. His work-study eligibility, though, is still up in the air. The ax will fall on that one sometime after they get back from Thanksgiving, but at this moment, Lip doesn't even care—he's riding too high on this successful last meeting.

"That was amazing," he says to Amanda as they walk back to the dorm, " _You_  were amazing."

Amanda smiles but doesn't lose her businesslike composure. "You really need to set up something over at Counseling and Psychological Services," she tells him, "We're gonna need that if we have to resort to an ADA complaint to get your scholarships fully reinstated for next term."

It's like she's kicked him in the balls.

"I don't think we need to take it that far," he says quietly.

"We might."

Lip doesn't say anything more, but he knows that if it really does come to that, he's going to fold and walk away, keep his pride intact (more or less). This 'mental health/substance abuse crisis' bullshit Amanda has cooked up for him has been brilliant, he can admit that, but there's no need to take it that far. That's one scam Lip's not willing to stoop to.

"Anyway," Amanda says, continuing the conversation without him, "I think it would be a really good thing for you, no matter how this shakes out. I mean, there's not any great honor in refusing help. I don't know why you act like it makes you better than everybody else if you suffer."

Lip looks at her, confused. "I'm not suffering."

She gives him a half-smile. "Well, you're sure making your life a lot harder than it needs to be."

They're reached the crossroads in the sidewalk where one direction leads to Amanda's sorority house and the other direction leads back to Lip's dorm. They stop, snow falling lightly around them.

"All right," she says, "I better go get packed. You can get me to O'Hare by six?"

"Yeah. Of course."

"Okay. Text me when you're outside, then. I'll come down with my bags."

"Sure."

He thrusts his hands in his pockets and lumbers onward to his last cafeteria shift before the holiday. He is grateful at first for the distraction, but then he finds himself wishing it was a distraction for his brain as much as it is for his hands. The rote loading of the dishwasher, clearing of the conveyor belt, rinsing of the dishes—it all just gives him too much time to think which equates to too much time to brood. And too much time to worry.

By the time he clocks out, all the confidence he'd felt from Amanda taking charge today has completely evaporated, replaced instead with the dread reminder that it was all for nothing. All the extended deadlines and extra credit projects in the world aren't going to give him the ability to do his work. They aren't going to silence his ever-pounding heart or bring his brain back. Because it turns out it there was never really much there to begin with. Lip's genius was only ever invisible cloth woven by the lower than low standards of the Southside.

There's a terrible clanging before the heating vents roar to life, but for a moment it makes it sound as if the whole building is collapsing down upon him. Maybe that would be preferable; if he were dead right now, he wouldn't have to deal with any of it or answer for anything. For a second, he indulges in the relief of that fantasy.

Regardless, he swipes his badge and heads over to Amanda's sorority house. There he loads up her bags and half-listens as she whines about her parents, her sister, all the terrible people she'll have to make small talk with in Miami. He doesn't tell her that he'd love to have her problems, even though he is tempted to. The least he can do is pretend to agree she has a right to complain.

On the way to O'Hare, though, she snaps off the stereo and asks sharply, "Did you even miss me when we weren't speaking?"

"We weren't speaking?"

"No. We weren't."

"Didn't realize that was official."

"Of course you didn't. Why should you care?"

He glances over at her, but she's facing her window with intense interest, as if I-90 is a scenic vista.

"Sorry," he offers, "Guess I was pretty distracted with Ian."

"Story of your whole semester."

Lip frowns as he switches lanes, prepares to take the cut-off for 190. While trying to hold onto Ian, Lip really has lost his grip on everything else. The semester slipped between his fingers and now his whole future is gone. It's sobering to realize this.

"Where does that obsession come from?" Amanda asks as she takes out her phone and begins texting someone.

"I'm not obsessed," he asserts.

"Right."

"I'm not."

"Okay." She puts her phone away and glances at him over the top of her glasses. "I really don't get it, though. I mean, is it just being worried about him?"

Lip struggles to find an answer for her and even for himself, trying to figure out how to put into words something so important but maddeningly amorphous. How do you express eighteen years of practically sharing the same body and blood and breath? Eighteen years of a responsibility that Lip fumbled more times than he can bear? Eighteen years eradicated by all the horrible fucking monsters Lip allowed him to wander into the arms of?

When Lip does start speaking, what comes out sounds whiney and anemic. "He used to like me, you know? He used to look up to me."

"He still does. You should hear the way he talks about you. You're right up there at Stephen Hawking levels of intelligence as far as he's concerned."

Lip smiles wryly. "Maybe he thinks I'm smart, but he sure as fuck doesn't respect me anymore. He doesn't even lov—like me. I guess I just…I don't want it to be like that."

Amanda gives Lip a sympathetic look. "He was pretty freaked out when we had to call the ambulance. Thought they were going to have to sedate him before they let him ride with you."

Lip falls quiet, thinking about this, about this new knowledge that Ian rode in the ambulance with him to the hospital, this new scenario to imagine and to feel shame about.

"I didn't say he wanted me to  _die_ ," he says.

Amanda watches him for a moment, seeming to be deciding whether she wants to share something with him. Then she sits back and says, "My sister hates me. Can't stand me. And I don't like her either. Never have. For as long as I can remember, we've always just been jealous and competitive, tearing each other down."

"That sucks," he offers helplessly.

"It does suck," she agrees with patronizing sarcasm, "The point, though, is that you don't have that. You aren't even remotely close to having that."

"So?"

"So, you should appreciate that."

"This some kind of 'better to have loved and lost' thing?"

"I don't know," she sighs, sounding tired for the first time ever, "I'm just saying, it's better to have any love at all."

There is some edge to her voice that catches Lip's attention, causes him to let go of his own problems for a moment. He glances over at her and it occurs to him that maybe Amanda isn't always doing all this stuff for everybody because she's bossy, but perhaps because she's lonely.

"You know you're pretty great, right?" he asks her.

"Oh, is that so?" Her shoulders remain tensely arranged.

"It is. It's true."

"If I'm so great, why aren't you jumping all over this?"

Lip flattens his mouth into a line, caught in his own trap. "You're too good for me," he says dismissively, taking the exit for Terminal 1.

"That's a cop-out."

"Okay. I'm not good enough for you."

"You could be."

He shakes his head slowly, "Don't make that mistake. Don't fall in love with my potential."

"But you have  _so much_ ," she laughs, pounding her fists against her thighs in frustration.

"It always leads to disappointment," he tells her with a smirk,"Gallaghers are more like beer than wine. We don't improve with age. We just skunk."

Amanda giggles a little at this and effortlessly pivots topic. "You told any of them about your probation yet?"

He doesn't answer; he can't.

"Well, maybe you won't have to," she offers in a kindergarten teacher tone of encouragement, "Get your work done and no one's the wiser."

"Mmm."

"You really don't think financial aid's going to show you any mercy, do you?"

She has no clue, no idea that he's never gonna get all that work done. But, what the hell? Let her think he's most concerned about his dumb work-study gig. "Why should they?" he shrugs.

"You're a cute, smart white boy. Why wouldn't they? The whole world is your freaking oyster."

"I'll add that to my list of reasons to think positive."

She scoffs. "You're not even capable of thinking positive."

He pulls up to the drop-off and puts the car in park. "See," he says, "Dodged a bullet. Could've been stuck with a mope like me for the rest of your life."

"Are we swans now? You think I was looking to mate for life?"

Lip pops the trunk and goes around to get her bags. Amanda follows from the passenger's side, remarking, "I think I'd prefer to mate then take your head off, praying mantis-style. More my thing."

Lip raises an eyebrow as he sets her bag on the curb. "You down for a, quick, uh…mate? We could hop over to the cell phone lot."

"You never stop, do you?"

"I'm in the prime of my youth. I have a healthy libido."

Amanda appraises his face, as if she's actually considering his offer. Then she reaches out and pushes his hair away from his eyes.

"Get your hair cut over break," she instructs him, "You're starting to look homeless."

She hefts her bag up and walks off for the doors.

As she disappears behind the glass and into the check-in crowd, Lip realizes that he's going to miss her.

* * *

 

He lets himself in at the Gallagher house and finds Fiona in the kitchen, struggling to fit a frozen turkey into a sink full of water. He dashes to help her just as she's about to lose her grip on the plastic-wrapped poultry.

"Where'd this come from?" he asks after they manage to get it submerged without too much water seeping over onto the counter and the floor.

"Bill Gates bought us a turkey. You want stuffing and rolls, though, you're on your own. All the sides he bought are vegetables." Fiona picks up a bundle of asparagus and frowns at it, "Suppose it won't kill us. Carl is not gonna be happy, though. I might be able to run down to Aldi, grab some rolls and stuff if there's anything left."

Lip peers into the fridge. It's stuffed with bags of salad greens, celery, carrots, protein shakes, and a pitcher of water that looks entirely out of place. There's a noticeable empty spot on the side, however, where normally there is an ever-present cardboard box.

"Ian toss the beer too?" Lip asks.

"No, that was Carl."

"Why?"

"Knew you were comin'."

Lip stares at the empty space. He says nothing in response to this piece of information, but he rearranges the items in the fridge to fill the empty space a little better. Then he grabs the water pitcher.

Fiona hands him a cup from the dish drainer and he fills it. Then he waves his hand over it.

"What're you doing?" she asks.

"Guess I'm still not Jesus."

Fiona rolls her eyes. "It can't be that bad."

"I'm just looking forward to everybody gettin' over this." He takes a sip of water and nearly chokes on it. "The hell is wrong with this?" he gasps after swallowing.

"Ian put some sort of super berry extract in it. Supposed to make us all better human beings, or something."

Lip glances at the stairs before he leans back against the counter and asks in a low voice, "He around?"

"Upstairs," Fiona replies as she begins tidying the counters, trying to make space, "He's snaking the drain."

"That a euphemism?"

She snorts. "Nah—he brought home some tool from work that supposedly is going to clear out the bathtub drain once and for all. Whether or not he's moved on to snaking his own drain, I can't say. He  _has_  been up there a while."

Lip smiles at this, but his tone is serious as he asks her quietly, "How long's he been like this?"

Fiona looks up, arms full of Liam's plastic dishes, "You think he's manic?"

"Don't you think so?"

She bites her lip as she considers this. Then she shakes her head and says, "No. I mean, maybe. I don't know. Maybe I just can't tell the difference anymore."

Lip almost smiles at her denial. Of course she doesn't want to see it. Of course Lip is gonna have to be the one to deal with it.

He takes a deep breath and says, "Don't worry about it. I'll take care of it."

He's halfway up the stairs when Fiona calls after him, as if everything is normal as can be, "See if he wants dinner."

Upstairs, Lip finds Ian on his knees beside the tub, busily messing with the drain. He's stripped down to his undershirt and jeans, but they're soaked all down the front.

"Hey," Lip greets him, leaning in the doorway.

"Oh, hey," Ian glances back at him. Then Ian lifts one rubber-gloved hand slowly, dragging some disgusting giant ball of hair and soap scum up from the drain, and says, "Check this out!"

"Nasty."

"It's all dark brown hair and red hair. And that isn't  _my_  red hair."

"Got a couple of suspects in mind already."

"Do me a favor?" Ian asks, plunging the snake back into the drain.

"Sure."

"Got a list up there on the sink. Will you add 'buy hair trap'?"

Lip locates the list and unfolds it. "What's all this?" he asks as he reads it.

"Just shit I gotta do."

_Fix back door lock. Fix plaster. Buy air filters. Carl old clothes. Debbie money. Smoke detector. Coffee maker. Fix stove burner. Call Com Ed. Salvation Army._

Lip adds " _buy hair trap_ " and takes a seat on the toilet lid. He runs both hands through his hair while he watches Ian work the drain snake and pull out more horrific blobs, piling them into a grocery bag by his side.

Finally, Lip asks, "You been to the doctor lately?"

"Uh, I went yesterday. Fuck!" Ian grimaces and has to use two hands to pull out the next clog.

"She think you were okay?"

"Who?"

"Your doctor."

Ian turns from the tub and looks at Lip. "What are you asking?"

Lip is cowed a bit by this directness, Ian's eyes pinning him like an insect to a display.

"I mean," Lip says, struggling with how to say this in a way that isn't going to piss Ian off, and failing to come up with anything, "I'm just…wondering if…"

Ian shakes his head. "Don't do this. Stop doing this."

"What?"

"Stop trying to put everything I do into some box—normal or crazy. Mickey does that shit all the time. Drives me nuts."

Lip picks up the list again and asks, "Well, what about this? This doesn't look good."

"I have a long weekend. I have shit I want to take care of. Why is that crazy?"

Lip shrugs.

Ian turns back to the drain, begins snaking intensely. "Ask me how I feel," he commands over his shoulder.

"Huh?"

"Ask  _me_  how I feel. If you want to know what my mental state is—if it bothers you so damn much—just fucking ask me. Don't play Twenty Questions trying to ask me without asking me."

"All right," Lip says, "How are you feeling?"

"Like shit."

"Okay."

"Mickey's gone. I've fucked that up forever. I'm up four more pounds since I started the Lithium again. My teeth are starting to look weird. I haven't been able to get hard enough to jack off in weeks, and when I try to do a few things around the house to keep my mind off all this shit, you come along accusing me of being on some manic flight or something."

Ian dramatically chucks another monster clog into the garbage bag. He sits hard on the floor and yanks off his gloves as swiftly as one can remove wet rubber gloves.

They stare each other down. If there's any trace of oversized mania there, Lip doesn't see it. He's too distracted by the bald contempt.

Lip lowers his gaze to the list once more. When he can find his voice, he comments, "For what it's worth, you're driving everybody else crazy."

"That's all right. It's better if they're pissed at me."

Suddenly, it all makes sense.

"You little shit," Lip says, "You're putting your affairs in order."

Ian just pokes at the bag of clogs and peers back at the drain. His ears are red, though.

"You know," Lip adds, "It's not gonna make it any better. No one's gonna forgive you for leavin' just because you fixed the stupid burner on the stove."

Ian says in a resigned tone, "I just wanna leave knowing everybody's gonna be all right."

"Oh, don't worry about it," Lip replies, standing up, "We're gonna be just fine without you."

Lip stalks out of the bathroom and heads for his old room, but Ian's stuff is all over the bed.

"Shithead," Lip mutters, turning and heading for Carl and Liam's room instead.

He collapses onto Ian's old bed and glares at the ceiling.

Ian may not be manic, but he hasn't done anything that will make Lip's stomach stop churning. Ian's still stuck on this idiotic plan to run away, acting like it's all logical and thought-out, taking care of all these pointless odds and ends, trying to force-feed them a lifetime's worth of his influence before he splits forever. The guilt must be eating Ian alive. That thought, at least, is some satisfaction, though it's cold comfort.

Lip frowns as he notices a shoeprint on the ceiling. It's perfectly stamped—somebody's gym shoe imprint, eight feet off the ground.

"What're you thinkin' about?"

Lip turns his head to see Fiona in the doorway.

"How that shoeprint got up there."

She walks into the room, craning her neck and squinting to try and see what Lip sees.

"Come here," Lip says, scooting over and patting the mattress, "You can see it from this angle."

She lies down beside him and looks up.

"Oh, yeah," she says, seeing it now, "Huh. How'd Ian get his foot all the way up there?"

"How do you know it was Ian?"

"Nobody else wears shoes that big."

Lip smiles and folds an arm behind his head, "Astute observation."

"I'm not as dumb as I look," Fiona replies. She sits up on an elbow and hollers, "Ian!"

He ambles in from the bathroom. "What?"

"That your foot that made that mark up there?" Fiona asks.

Ian squints to where she's pointing then he smiles. "Yeah. Don't you remember, Lip?"

"No."

"You bet me I couldn't flip off the top bunk and kick the ceiling. Almost broke my neck, but I did it."

"That's right," Lip says, the memory coming back to him, "I tried and I couldn't do it. But you just kept throwing yourself off there 'til you got it. Shit. I forgot about that."

"Were you guys drunk?" Fiona asks.

Ian shakes his head and explains, "Just bored."

"Why are teenage boys so moronic?" she asks.

"We've got testosterone coming out of our ears," Lip replies.

Ian nods in agreement with this assessment as he peels off his wet undershirt and drapes it in front of the heat vent to dry.

"You're lookin' skinny," Fiona remarks.

"Hardly."

"If Mom was here, she'd be fallin' over herself to make you lasagna and cookies," Fiona teases.

"Yeah," Ian says, "Then she'd wander off to do something else and end up burning the kitchen down."

Fiona laughs then asks, "You want some dinner?"

"Nah. Think I'm gonna go for a run."

Ian heads down the hall to change, and Fiona gives Lip a look.

"And here I was always worried Debbie'd be the one with body issues," she says.

"Still got plenty of time to get fucked up and prove you right," Lip says. He sits up and takes out a cigarette. As he lights it and puffs, he observes his sister. "You're lookin' skinny too," he comments.

"I shouldn't," she says, "Pretty sure if I cut myself, I'll bleed Lemon Meringue."

"You manage to sneak in any contraband for tomorrow?"

"In the back of the freezer. Pumpkin, Pecan, and French Silk. Don't tell the carb Nazi."

"God, he'd make great SS, wouldn't he?" Lip remarks, passing her the cigarette.

Fiona giggles as she relaxes against the wall, "He does like his rules."

After she takes a drag and passes the cigarette back, she asks, "What's the latest with him and Mickey? You know what the hell's goin' on there?"

"Finito."

"Uh-uh. No way."

"How long did you think that shit was gonna last?"

Fiona looks more glum at this statement than Lip would've predicted.

"Ian told ya he wants out?" she asks like a kid seeking reassurances that all rumors about Santa Clause's fictional status have been greatly exaggerated.

"When has Ian ever told anybody anything? But, yeah. They're done. Trust me."

"Shit," she sighs, "What's Ian gonna do without Mickey?"

"He's doin' fine."

"Jesus, Lip, have you seen the level of mope goin' on here? It's like we're bein' haunted by some emo handyman."

"Not gonna have to worry 'bout that much longer," he says before he can stop himself.

"Why's that?"

Lip hesitates. He considers dropping the bomb, letting her know that Ian's done with them all, that's he's shortly to remove himself from all their lives. But he doesn't want to have to deal with the fallout. Let Ian tell Fiona himself; let him deal with how much it's going to crush her. Let him deal with those eyes.

"He's gonna be onto someone else in no time," he says as if this was what he meant all along, "Be better off. Find somebody who's not a fuckin' Neanderthal and maybe knows how to do one activity that's not illegal."

"If he can find a hidden stash of guys around here who fit that description, I hope he lets me in on it."

"Thought you weren't supposed to be datin' right now. Isn't that part of St. Ian's master plan? Turn you into a nun? Sister Fiona?"

Fiona smiles. "Debbie tell ya about that? That girl has such a big mouth."

Then she settles back a bit more and says, "He wants me to start takin' some classes too."

"What?"

"Gave me a bunch of brochures he got from the City Colleges. I don't know how he thinks I'm supposed to pay—"

"That'd be pointless," Lip cuts her off, "You're a felon. Degree or not, nobody's gonna hire you."

Fiona doesn't look at him. She ashes the cigarette and says quietly, "Thanks."

"Well, shit, what's the point of pretending? What good does false hope do?"

"You're right," she says softly.

"Just 'cause he's got his head up his ass doesn't mean you gotta follow him up there."

She falls quiet and turns her back to him slightly while she shifts the ashtray further from the edge of the nightstand.

Lip watches her pointy shoulders under her pilled, cheap sweater as she continues to fiddle with the ashtray, and he wishes he had something positive to offer her. But he's been puzzling that one out for a year now and, short of some Prince Charming swooping in to set her up in kept womanhood, Lip doesn't see any brighter future for Fiona on the horizon. He hasn't fretted about this overmuch, though, because it wasn't going to matter once he graduated and got the job that would save them all. Now, though…

"How you holdin' up?" Fiona asks, interrupting his thoughts.

"Fine," he shrugs, squelching down his annoyance and pretending that he thinks she's merely inquiring about his general wellbeing.

"Is it hard bein' back here? I know this place always makes  _me_  want a drink."

"It's fine."

"We're not havin' anything with dinner tomorrow—Ian and I agreed on that—so you don't have to feel left out or weird or anything."

"That's not necessary," Lip tells her, doing his best to sand the sharpness off his voice. They seem to be picturing him as some fiend who'd be drinking the dregs from dirty glasses at the Alibi if he could drag himself out of the gutter long enough. One screw-up and it's come to this.

"It's nice havin' him back," Fiona muses, gazing up at Ian's old posters, "I know he's gettin' on everybody's nerves, but he cares, you know?" She nudges her shoulder up against Lip's and adds, "I like havin' my rocks back at home."

Lip is quiet, contemplating again whether or not he should tell her that this is all part of Ian's plan to fly the coop permanently, whether it'll hurt more or less if Fiona is prepared for this abandonment.

He also considers telling her about school—that he'll be home for good soon, that he's fucked up everything—but he can't do that to her. Fiona doesn't need another thing to worry about, and she doesn't need her Thanksgiving ruined. She'll learn what an absolute failure he is soon enough.

As Lip is thinking about this, he hears the familiar sound of Ian trotting down the stairs in his running shoes, but then Ian stops short in the kitchen, his rubber soles squeaking on the vinyl.

"Who the hell let you in?" Ian asks, and both Fiona and Lip sit up in the bed, listening.

"I've decided to spend the holiday with my family. It's a Christmas miracle."

Lip groans at the sound of Frank's voice.

"Goddammit," Fiona mutters, pulling herself up and marching downstairs to intervene.

Lip lingers on the bed, finishing the cigarette with his eyes closed as the arguing floats up from downstairs. He winces when Frank asks Ian if he's out on a day pass and is surprised that Ian doesn't rise to the bait. Then Lip knows they're done for when Frank threatens to call up Social Services and rat Fiona out for keeping him from seeing his children.

"I have a legal claim," Frank argues, "You were there in court, I seem to remember. Or did you forget it all in a coke-fueled haze?"

Yup. Done for.

Now Ian and Fiona are arguing. ("You're not seriously giving in to this shit?" "He'll be gone tomorrow. It's just one night." "I'm out of here.")

The door slams as Ian leaves. Fiona says to Frank, as if she's maintained any authority at all, "I mean it. Tomorrow and you're out."

Lip is grateful when his phone starts buzzing. It's Amanda.

"How's Miami?" he answers.

"I wouldn't know. They canceled all the flights because of the ice."

"Shit. You need me to pick you up?"

"No. My dad got me a room at the O'Hare Hilton. I'll fly out in the morning. I'm ordering room service and a massage."

"Tough life."

"Well, I know how to make the best of things."

"And how to run up your dad's credit card."

"What else is it for?"

"I admire your mercenary heart."

"Aw, thank you. How's Ian?"

"False alarm."

"Well, that's a relief."

Fiona's arguing with Frank about something downstairs—Lip can hear her raised voice, but he's not listening well enough to make out what it's about. Then Fiona stomps up the stairs and slams her bedroom door behind her.

"How's the home front?" Amanda asks.

"Same as ever. I should probably go, though."

"All right. You still picking me up Sunday? I don't want to spend a minute longer than I have to at O'Hare. I saw enough of it today."

"I'll be there. Don't worry."

"You have my flight info?"

"Yup."

"Arrivals at United."

"I know."

"Domestic."

"I  _know_."

"Oh, and I'll be bringing my new boyfriend with me."

"What?"

"I'm kidding. See you Sunday. Stay out of trouble."

"Okay."

"Sleep tight."

"Right."

"Don't let the bedbugs bite."

"Think that's more of a problem for you than for me. Should take one of those ultraviolet lights to the sheets too while you're at it."

"Goodnight, Lip."

"All the body fluids that are on those sheets…semen, saliva, probably fecal matter too…"

"You're so charming."

"You have any idea the percentage of surfaces in the world that are covered with trace amounts of fecal matter? And that begs the question, what do we really mean by 'trace'?"

"Night, Lip."

"Night."

Lip ends the call smiling, but loneliness sweeps right back in like the tide.

Fiona has music blasting in her room. Lip knows better than to go in there right now. Downstairs, he can hear Frank rummaging through the kitchen, cursing, knocking something over.

A glorious light bulb goes off as Lip remembers that Ian had a stash of decent pot tucked away in the box spring. Lip is down on his hands and knees in a flash, digging his way under the bed, twisting his neck and trying not to block the light so he can find the secret hiding place.

With triumph, he spots a small hole and plunges his hand up into the wooden frame. He flops his hand around, feeling out in all directions, but when he withdraws it, he's got nothing but a fistful of dust bunnies.

"Fuck."

He lays there in defeat for some time with his head and torso under the bed. At least it's quiet down here.

There's a lot of junk under here: old socks and shoes and clothes and broken Nerf toys. Not one, not two, but three empty Gatorade bottles. Ian was never any tidier than the rest of them.

Lip smiles as he spots some magazines bunched up by the wall. He drags them over, anticipating porn. They're fitness magazines, though. Lip folds it so he can make out the one cover image in the partial light—it's some shirtless guy flexing in tiny spandex shorts. Might as well be porn.

He tosses the magazines back by the wall and is about to drag himself out from under the bed when he sees a book in the corner. It's splayed open, obviously having been dropped between the bed and the wall at some point and never retrieved. Lip reaches and drags it over.

It's coated in dust and he can't make out the title in this light, but he does immediately recognize the crinkly plastic covering and sticker on the spine; it's a library book.

Lip army crawls his way out, taking the book with him. He blinks in the light and then sneezes three times quickly from all the dust. Finally, though, he turns it over and has a look.

_Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space_

Lip grins. He checked this book out in middle school. The Chicago Public Library wanted to fine him forty bucks to replace it when he couldn't find it to return. He ended up hacking into the system and erasing the record of his fine so he could continue checking out books—it was perhaps the nerdiest caper he'd ever undertaken.

He traces the image of the planet on the cover and can almost smell the nostalgia wafting off of it. That was the summer he was obsessed with Carl Sagan and cosmology and astronomy. The next year it was robotics, then the year after that girls entered his consciousness, and that was all she wrote. But that one summer, that became Lip's summer of Sagan.

It had been Ian who kicked it off, though. He'd come home on the last day of school so pleased with himself, toting the crate he'd swiped from outside the A/V closet at school. He was certain there'd be expensive equipment in there they could sell.

Instead, when they managed to get the top unlocked, all they found were two VCRs, a bunch of cables, and the complete PBS  _Cosmos_  series on VHS.

"Nobody wants this shit," Lip told him, "They probably put it out there to throw away."

Ian looked crestfallen and Lip attempted to make him feel better, saying, "Might be able to use some of this stuff for parts, though." This did seem to cheer Ian a bit—he was always impressed by Lip's ability to build new things out of old junk.

Pleased to have made Ian feel useful, Lip left the crate in the living room and the two of them went about their day as usual.

That night, however, Lip couldn't sleep. He crept out of the bedroom and headed downstairs, seeking something to occupy his brain. The VCRs were there, so he got a screwdriver and set to work opening one up and seeing if there was anything worth salvaging.

The dead quiet of the house kept distracting him, though. Eventually, to fill the silence, he hooked up the other VCR to the TV, popped in one of the videos and kept the volume low so as not wake anyone upstairs.

But taking apart the VCR soon fell by the wayside as Lip found himself drawn into the video. He was so engrossed in this dorky 1980s man in his turtleneck and sports coat talking about the origins of the universe that Lip didn't even hear Ian padding down the stairs until he was right there beside him, squinting, hair sticking up.

"What're you doing?" Ian croaked as Lip scrambled to stop the video and hide all evidence that he'd been up to anything so uncool.

"You watching porn?" Ian asked, plopping down on the couch and stretching out his twiggy little legs.

"No. Yes! No," Lip fumbled.

Ian picked up the VHS case from the coffee table and looked at it. "Are you watching those videos from school?"

"Just wanted to see if the VCR worked."

Ian set the case down and peered at Lip, eyes still sleepy. "We already know you're smart," Ian said, "Why do you pretend you aren't?"

"I'm not doing that," Lip argued futilely.

"If I was smart like you, I wouldn't always be trying to hide it."

"I don't. Why're you down here, anyway?"

"Woke up and you were gone. Came to find you."

"Well, here I am. Now go back to sleep."

Ian settled in deeper on the couch, shifted his feet to the coffee table. "Is it any good?" he asked.

He wasn't going anywhere, and Lip realized he had no choice but to give in to that. He sighed and answered, "It's okay."

"What's it about?"

"Space."

"That sounds cool."

"It's not. It's real Channel 11 kinda stuff. There's a reason why they had it at school."

"Well, lemme watch with you. Maybe I'll do better in science class next year."

"Not likely," Lip replied, "You've got Gonzalez. She's a total bitch."

"Put it on anyway," Ian directed, nodding toward to the TV.

So Lip gave in. He put the tape back on and busied himself stripping the innards from the other VCR, fully expecting Ian to be bored out of his mind and go back to bed.

That didn't happen, though. Ian sat through the whole program, watching with half-lidded eyes. When it ended, he turned to Lip and asked, "Wanna put in the next one?"

"You gotta get up early," Lip protested, "Help Fiona with the daycare."

"I'm not sleeping anyway."

Lip put in the next cassette and this time didn't even bother with pretending not to be interested. Instead, he flopped down on the couch beside Ian and they watched it together.

They stayed awake to watch the entire episode, though they were sleepy by the end of it, the space between them having grown narrower and their posture less rigid until they were leaned against each other like puppies. As the credits began to roll, Lip was tempted to just stay there, buttressed by the warmth of his brother. If they were just to remain exactly as they were, surely they'd both be asleep within minutes, drifting into peaceful dreams of primordial life and cosmic dust narrated with comforting authority. But the older sibling responsibility kicked in, and Lip insisted it was time to return to bed.

Back in their room, though, Lip lay on his bunk listening to Ian toss around below, made wide awake by something. Finally, Ian spoke up in an insistent whisper.

"So, we've got our solar system and our galaxy," he said, "Then a bunch of other galaxies?"

In the dark, Lip smiled at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"But what's outside of that?"

"More galaxies."

"But…what's outside of that? It has to end at some point, right?"

"Not necessarily."

"So, space just goes on forever?"

"As far as we're capable of comprehending, yeah. It's infinite."

"Shit," Ian whispered. He contemplated this for a moment before he asked, "That all makes sense to you?"

"Pretty much. The cool thing," Lip said, sitting up now, too excited to lie prone, "Is that because it's infinite, that means that everything that can possibly exist probably exists."

Ian went quiet.

"Alternative versions of Earth, of you and me," Lip explained, "They're all out there."

Ian took this in, rolling the information over in his brain before he declared, "That's bullshit."

"It's not. It's 100% possible. Every version of us that could possibly exists probably does exist, a million light years away."

Lip realized then that he was gripping the side of the bunk bed frame hard enough to make his hands ache, so excited had he gotten speaking about all of this. Embarrassed, he sat back and tried to command himself to dial down his enthusiasm.

The dead silence in the room seemed to confirm his foolishness, but then Ian spoke up again.

"So, you think there's a version of us out there where we're rich?"

Lip laughed. "Why not?"

"Black?"

"Sure. I mean, it doesn't even have to be big stuff like that. Somewhere out there there's a version of the world where everything is exactly the same except your shoes are gray instead of white."

"How 'bout a version of the world where Frank's not an asshole?"

"I don't think the universe could handle that."

That made Ian laugh, and Lip felt contented as he slipped off to sleep.

The next night and the night after that and the night after that, the two of them made their way through  _Cosmos_. Lip never invited Ian, but still he dutifully appeared beside him on the couch, settling in to watch with quiet attention. Lip wasn't sure whether Ian joined him because he was interested—Lip wondered how much of it Ian really understood—or whether Ian joined him just because he wanted to share this with his brother. Either way, it felt good. Occasionally, Ian would pause the video and ask Lip to re-explain something to him, and almost every night he had more questions saved up to ask across from bunk to bunk. Lip loved explaining it all to him, loved the way Ian listened with such concentration and seemed to trust Lip more than Carl Sagan himself.

It was a peculiar responsibility, being trusted like that, and Lip did his best to take it seriously. He took out more books from the library, printed off everything in the system Sagan's name was even affiliated with and ordered every last volume. He read up on them so he could be ready no matter what Ian wanted to know, but in the process Lip became more aware of just how vast and complicated everything in the world truly was. Their own tiny universe expanded that summer.

After the library copy of  _Pale Blue Dot_  disappeared when Lip was only half-way through it, he checked it out on audiobook instead. They'd long since run through the videos and this was the last of the Sagan books, which made Lip melancholy the closer he got to the end of it, knowing there would be no more after this. Sagan had become something like a distant uncle to him, the ideal dad Lip had always wished he'd had.

He was lulled into peacefulness, lying in his bunk with his eyes closed, listening to the steady, reassuring cadence of Sagan's voice. He could've said anything and Lip would've nodded along. That was what he imagined all the professors would be like should he ever somehow make it to college, warm and effortlessly intelligent, presenting fascinating topics, expanding his mind with their intellectual enthusiasm. Years later he would be disappointed to find that they were just douchebags punching a clock like anybody else.

Lip startled as someone grabbed his ankle. Opening his eyes, he saw Ian on the ladder of the bunk bed.

"I can't sleep," Ian said, "Can I listen when you're done?"

"Sure," Lip replied, but there was some quality to Ian's voice that caught Lip's attention. Ian was scared about something.

Lip inclined his head back and said, "Come here."

Ian obeyed, climbing up onto the bunk and settling down beside him. Lip removed one of his earbuds and passed it over. Ian scooted closer, wedged up tight beside him, and put it in. Then Lip pressed play and felt his heartbeat slow down to match Ian's as they breathed and listened.

_Look again at that dot. That's here. That's home. That's us. On it everyone you love, everyone you know, everyone you ever heard of, every human being who ever was, lived out their lives..._

This was the last summer Ian ever was smaller than Lip—he'd shoot up past him that fall and it would never feel quite the same again. Neither of them knew that yet, though. For now, for this moment, they were how they always ever were: two boys shoulder to shoulder in the dark, marveling at the possibilities of the world that lay ahead.

… _Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves…_

Ian was asleep. Lip could tell this by the sound of his breathing. Without thinking about it consciously, Lip moved slightly closer to him. Between the wall on one side and Lip on the other, Ian would be safe.

… _There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world. To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we've ever known…_

As Lip began to drift off, he felt Ian stir then resettle himself, resting his head against Lip's shoulder. Lip nestled his chin down atop Ian's head and as Lip passed into sleep, he inhaled the scent of Ian's hair: dandruff shampoo, a bit of sweat, a bit of something otherwise indefinable that was simply the smell of  _Ian_.

This was home.

Alone in the room now, Lip closes the book tight. He rubs it across the carpet to remove some of the dust from the cover, and he sets it aside. He looks up at the posters and pictures tacked up around Ian's old bed, the detritus of a boy who doesn't exist anymore.

He can't stay here. Lip kicks the book back under the bed and stomps downstairs in search of distraction.

With sick shock, he finds Frank sitting at the kitchen table. Somehow Lip had forgotten he was here.

"Merry Christmas!" Frank greets him, holding up a can of beer in tribute and taking a sip.

"It's Thanksgiving," Lip replies, yanking open the fridge.

"There's nothin' but crap," Frank warns him, "Unless you've got a hankerin' for a celery sandwich with a side of spinach."

Lip frowns over the fridge contents and moves onto the pantry. There's not much here either, but he does find a can of tuna. He opens that while Frank rambles on, telling some story about Kermit—Lip isn't really listening.

After he's drained the water from the can, Lip returns to the fridge.

"I wouldn't get my hopes up about there bein' any mayonnaise," Frank laughs, "You kids are livin' like animals."

There is indeed no mayonnaise. Lip slams the fridge shut and stalks over to the table with his sad little can of tuna and a fork. He makes a face as he takes the first nasty bite, and Frank cackles.

"Where'd that come from?" Lip asks, nodding his head toward the 24-pack of Old Style sitting beside Frank on the table.

"I came bearing gifts."

"Ah."

"Your Nana Gallagher used to always say the worst thing you could do was show up at the door with your two hands hangin' down, one as long as the other."

"Real concerned about hospitality, huh?" Lip says and takes another bite.

"Well, you know me," Frank shrugs.

"Right."

Frank takes a fresh beer from the box and sets it down in front of Lip.

Lip ignores it and mushes the tuna around the can a bit. It really is disgusting.

"Why don't you just go to the Alibi?" he asks, hoping to drive Frank off, "Doesn't Kate usually do holiday drink specials?"

"Wouldn't have the chance to bond with my oldest son then."

Lip snorts and takes a bite of tuna.

"I could bring ya with," Frank says with a calculated smile, "'Course, you'd be drinkin' Shirley Temples all night, and that's a waste of good grenadine."

Lip continues to eat, careful not to give Frank any of the reaction he's angling for. Obviously, he's heard about what happened—Lip wonders which sibling has been talking to him. Traitors.

"I mean, Fiona told everyone under no exception are they allowed to serve you," Frank continues, eyeing him with barely concealed delight, "Nobody comes between Mama Hen and her helpless little chicks."

Lip's entire body goes cold.

Frank prattles on, "You know how she likes to have everybody else do the parenting for her. Everybody else is responsible for keepin' you all out of prison and the drunk tank, the psych ward…" Frank laughs, "Takes a fuckin' village and all that ball-shrivelin' Hilary Clinton nonsense…"

Lip's stomach rolls over as he imagines Fiona doing this, telling Kev and V and Paco and Kate and whoever else what a fuck-up Lip is, how her pathetic brother can't even be trusted to look after himself, warning them all that Lip is a walking failure who needs special treatment, who needs to be looked after, who needs to be protected from himself, like he's…Frank.

"I remember my first time," Frank reminisces warmly, "Your mother was in such a self-righteous tizzy, swore up and down that was it, we were sober from there on out, gonna do it for the kids, do it for my health…that lasted all of forty-eight hours."

Lip eyes him in disbelief. Frank really is trying to bond with him somehow, like they've now got something in common. It's ridiculous.

He tries to shake his head and smile it off, look away, but Lip finds his gaze drawn right back. He takes in the strong, bony hand clutching the can, the short fingers and big knuckles dotted with freckles and almost invisible patches of yellow blond hair. They both have the same hands, though Frank's are slightly more aged. Lip knows without a doubt that his own hands will look exactly like this a few decades out. It's the inevitability of genetics.

Outrage begins to burn at the back of Lip's throat—he keeps picturing Fiona at the Alibi, running through his head all the things she must have said—but it boils off into hopelessness as his eyes move from Frank's hand to his elbow and his bicep. They have the same arms, the same wiry musculature. That might as well be Lip's sloped shoulder under Frank's stained and tattered t-shirt. The hair, the eyes, the ruddiness Lip's face has taken on these past few months…how could Lip have ever have fooled himself enough to pay for that DNA test all those years back? All he had to do was wait and one morning he'd wake up Frank's perfect clone. He never had a chance.

Frank gives Lip a fatherly pat on the shoulder and says, "Ah, what do they know?"

"They know you."

That makes Frank laugh. "They don't know anything."

Lip pretends to be interested in his tuna, but he's too gutted to carry on the pantomime.

"You're the only one I have no worries about," Frank informs him, still carrying on with this paternal tone, "Your sisters, your brothers—I don't know what the hell they're gonna do, how they're gonna make it. But you? I've never wasted a minute worrying about what was gonna happen to you."

Lip manages a half-hearted smirk. "Don't think it's very likely you've ever wasted a minute worrying about anyone."

"What a nasty thing to say to your father."

"If the shoe fits and all that shit…" Lip shrugs and sets the tuna aside.

"All I'll say is, anybody worrying about what's gonna happen to you is wastin' their goddamn time. You know what you're doin'. Don't let 'em act like you don't just 'cause they wanna jump at the opportunity to control ya. Every last one of 'em gets off on kickin' you when you're down. Pretty sure they get that from your mother. She was  _masterful_  at that."

Frank reaches over to Lip's beer and cracks open the tab top. Then he sets the can a little closer to Lip.

Their eyes meet. Lip stares down his future. He's never felt more defeated.

They're interrupted as Fiona stomps down the stairs. She pays no attention to them as she pulls the celery from the fridge and drops it haughtily on the counter. Her face falls as she opens the pantry.

"No peanut butter either?" she wails. She slams the cabinet door and grumbles to herself, "Can't even have ants on a log. Probably tossed out the raisins too…"

She heaves a sigh and her gaze trails over to Lip and Frank. Then she stiffens as she spots Lip's beer.

"What do you think you're doin'?!"

"None of your fuckin' business," Lip mutters. The fury about what she said at the Alibi is burning inside him, though it feels like there's nothing left in there to destroy. They all already know he's Frank.

"Lip," she says, voice wobbling as she attempts to maintain a tone of authority, "Don't do this. You can stop right now."

"Fuck  _you_ ," he sneers and takes a deep gulp from the can. It tastes like warm piss and bile. He gulps down two more swallows insouciantly before Fiona grabs him by the collar.

Frank roars with laughter as they scuffle, Fiona pulling Lip off the chair, Lip almost taking the whole table down with him as he stumbles and grabs out for anything he can get. She's caught him off balance, though, and she maintains the upper hand, dragging him toward the front of the house.

Lip finally finds his footing and comes up to his full height, swinging his arm out to try and dislodge her grip on him.

Fiona lets go of him and leaps backward as he just misses hitting her in the face.

They both freeze in astonishment at what just nearly happened.

He looks to her ghost-white face and tries to find a voice to tell her that this was an accident, that he would never purposefully hit her, but her shock morphs into anger right in front of his eyes.

"Get out," she commands in a low voice.

"Fiona…"

"Out. Now."

She marches to the front door and holds it open for him.

He casts his eyes down, plucks his boots up with one hand and grabs his coat off the hook. He tries once more, turning to her beseechingly, but Fiona refuses to meet his eyes.

"Fuck all of you," he says under his breath. Fiona slams the door behind him.

* * *

 

Lip pulls his legs and arms as close to his torso as he can and lowers his neck down into his coat. It's bitter cold. Amanda's BMW is tempting, but where would he go? He supposes he could go to Amanda's hotel room, play on her sympathy to get her to let him stay the night, but she's probably asleep already and, anyway, this is his house too. Thinking about this fact, he unconsciously sits harder on the step, making himself as much of a dead weight on that porch as possible.

He narrows his eyes and takes a resentful drag on his cigarette, caught up on the injustice and annoyance of it all. Then Ian is there, returning from his run.

"What're you doing?" Ian asks.

"Fiona kicked me out."

Ian snorts and eases down beside him. "What'd you do?"

"Doesn't matter."

"Okay."

Ian doesn't speak more, but remains sitting there, as if he knows that Lip is not going to leave it at that, as if he knows Lip isn't  _capable_  of not saying what he's thinking.

"I just…" Lip begins, furrowing his brow and glaring out at the shiny BMW, "I can't take everyone treatin' me like this."

"Like what?"

"Like I'm weak. Can't control myself. Like I'm pathetic."

Lip pulls deeply on his cigarette and shakes his head as he exhales and continues, "I fucked up one time, and now it's like I can't be trusted, like I need goddamn babysitters watchin' me all the time."

Lip turns his head and is surprised to find that Ian is smiling.

"What's funny?" Lip asks.

"Feels like crap, doesn't it?" Ian remarks, his eyes glinting with amusement.

Lip turns his shoulder on him. "It's not the same thing," he mutters.

Ian doesn't push it. He turns his attention to himself instead, extending his arm in front of himself and rolling up the sleeve of his running shirt. He breathes through his teeth in pain, which catches Lip's attention. Ian's forearm is scraped up and bleeding.

"The hell'd you do?" Lip asks.

"Slipped and wiped out. Least my shirt's okay. Paid a shit ton for it."

"Why the fuck are you runnin' in this weather? It's nothin' but ice."

Ian doesn't answer. He's busy examining the bloodstain on his sleeve. Then he stands up and holds out his good hand to Lip.

"Come on," Ian says, "Fiona doesn't get to make all the decisions. Besides, she let  _Frank_  stay."

Lip gives in and stubs out his cigarette. He climbs up without Ian's assistance, however.

"You heard anything from Carl?" Ian asks as they head back into the house, "He's not answering my texts and it's getting late."

"Not Carl I'd be worried about. Where's Debbie?"

"Staying over at Sheila's with Liam. They're making some stuff for tomorrow."

Lip starts to make a snide comment about Debbie spending time with Sheila, but he bites down on it. Better to have Debbie over there than at her boyfriend's house. And anyway, Sheila's always been good to Lip, regardless of how fucked up things had gotten over there.

As they tramp through the living room and into the kitchen, they find Frank still sitting there, now with his feet up on the table.

"Want me to finish that off for you?" Frank asks Lip, gesturing toward Lip's abandoned beer can with the one Frank's currently holding.

Before Lip can even spit out a sarcastic response, Ian turns toward him, looking deeply betrayed.

Lip brushes this off. "Jesus, I had three sips. Do I look like I'm falling down drunk?"

The disappointment doesn't leave Ian's face, though. It hurts to see it there, so resolute. Ian really does think so little of him.

Ian doesn't say anything to Lip, bypassing him in favor of Frank.

"Take this shit and get out of here," Ian commands.

Frank sniffs and sips his beer.

"Get out," Ian repeats.

"I don't remember anyone puttin' you in charge," Frank remarks, "Don't even think you're supposed to be walkin' around like this, unsupervised. Where's that little nurse of yours? You drive him off with all the crazy?" Frank laughs and adds, "Not surprised. There is no man alive can put up with that shit for long, no sir. Been there, done that."

Every muscle in Ian's face is pulled tight, but he looks to Lip, as if seeking permission to throw Frank out.

Still hurting, Lip tries to deescalate the situation. "It's not worth it," he tells Ian, "Just leave him alone."

"You shouldn't be around him."

The paternalism in Ian's statement stings; there's not a shred of faith in Lip's intelligence left.

"I think I can take care of myself," Lip scoffs, "I sure as fuck don't need  _you_  protecting me."

That grenade lands exactly where intended, even if Lip wasn't consciously meaning to toss it. Ian backs down, bows his head as he turns from both of them.

Lip goes for another hit, though, following Ian as he makes his way to the stairs.

"Hey," Lip barks, "You wanna fix everybody, right? Make us all perfect before you ditch us? How're you gonna fix me?"

"Why should I bother?" Ian says coldly, looking at him with that same contempt, "What's the point?"

The last bit of everything drains out of Lip as Ian heads up the stairs, leaves him behind.

"For not bein' all that bright, that kid always took himself so seriously," Frank muses, "Self-righteousness gets pretty old after awhile."

Lip's knees are wobbling. He eases himself into one of the kitchen chairs.

"Lay off Ian," Lip mumbles without any heart really in it, "You're always such a dick to him."

Frank shrugs. "Not my kid. Just happy to mooch off me like he is."

Normally, a comment like this would slide right by, just more Frank's usual nonsense. Tonight, however, it sticks with Lip. Ian is not Frank's son. Ian could never understand how doomed Lip is.

Lip looks across the table to Frank, watches him push his lank hair back from his face and take another sip. Lip stares into that mirror.

"Think I'm gonna have to drop out of school," he hears himself confess.

"They kickin' you out or you dumpin' them?"

"Kickin' me out."

"Atta boy," Frank grins, "That's the way to do it."

Lip continues to study him as the room seems to grow dark and close around them. They have different noses. That's something, maybe.

But Frank went to college. Monica never let them forget that, as if the handful of intro courses Frank managed to almost complete were proof that Frank was the smartest man ever born.

"Did they kick you out or did you leave?" Lip asks him, "When you were at Chicago State?"

"It was a mutual decision. Plus, Uncle Sam decided he didn't feel like givin' me loans anymore after I got arrested."

"Oh."

"Dodged a bullet with that one. What a waste of time that would've been, huh?"

Lip doesn't answer. He's dropped his eyes to the beer can sitting in front of him.

"College isn't for guys like us," Frank tells him warmly, "That's just a warehouse for people too dumb to make their own way through life. We're too smart for that racket. All it does is hold us back."

Lip puts both hands on the can to steady himself. It seems like there isn't any life left in him at all, not enough energy to even hold his body upright. And, really. What's the point of trying to fight it?  _What's the point?_

"You got anything harder than this?" He asks as he takes a sour gulp.

Frank smiles as if they're in on a secret. "I just might."

* * *

 

There's a bottle of bourbon hidden inside the piano, tucked back where the hammers strike. Frank plays  _When the Saints Go Marching In_  to celebrate the find. Over and over he plays the same song. Lip laughs as they trade pulls off the bottle, and a couple rounds in, Lip sings along.

Frank knows a whole catalogue of songs, it turns out. He does a little Billy Joel and Elton John, half of a Little Richard, while Lip hollers along and they alternate the bourbon with the beer.

Fiona comes down at some point to slam the piano shut and yell at them ineffectually. Lip tries to pull her down to sit on the piano bench with them and sing along, but she yanks herself away.

"Come on," Lip begs her, "When was the last time we had any fun together? I miss you."

"This isn't fun."

" _You're_  not fun," Lip retorts, turning back to the piano.

"I'll play somethin' for your sister," Frank assures him. He cracks his knuckles and launches into  _Lady Madonna_.

Lip smiles as Frank sings, "Lady Madonna! Children at your feet, wonder how you manage to make ends meet!"

Frank used to play this for Monica when they were little, tease her with it. Now he's playing it for Fiona and that seems about right. They're all caught in this loop, repeating each other's mistakes. There isn't anything else they can do.

"Who finds the money when you pay the rent?" Lip shouts along, grinning at Fiona, "Did you think that money was heaven sent?"

She isn't laughing, though.

Lip looks away from her. It doesn't feel good anymore; it feels horrible. But if he stops now, he's stuck with the reality of horrible. If he keeps going, eventually it won't feel like anything.

Now Ian is here and he's pulling Frank off the bench, forcing him onto his feet.

"You can be assholes quietly," he says, shoving Frank toward the couch and slamming down the piano top. He pats his hand along the top of the piano until he finds the key and he locks it. As he drops the key in the pocket of his jeans, Ian's eyes meet Lip's.

"Why're you doing this?" Ian asks.

"'Cause I'm Frank Gallagher's son," Lip responds, "But you wouldn't understand that."

"You're unbelievable," Fiona says with disgust, stepping in between her two brothers.

"Come on," she says to Ian, putting a hand on his shoulder so as to lead him away.

But Ian shakes her off with a quick jerk and heads upstairs away from all of them.

Lip is pleased at having sown discord between the two of them. Serves them right for ganging up on him, acting all sanctimonious. But then he catches Fiona's Bambi eyes again—those same damn eyes Ian's always wearing—and he loses confidence in his spite.

"Fiona, hey," he says, surprised to hear how sloppy his speech sounds, "Don't worry. Just…just go back to bed. I know what I'm doin', okay? It's fine. Don't freak out."

She doesn't look reassured, though; she just looks defeated. "You're both outta here tomorrow," she says, "I don't want this around the kids anymore."

"Where  _are_  the kids?" Frank asks with a chuckle. He nods toward the upstairs and adds, "You lose track of them again, like you did with that one? Not exactly battin' a thousand, are ya?"

Fiona sighs and turns to Lip. "I thought you were better than this," she says.

"That was a dumb thing to think," he replies.

"What is going on with you?"

Lip smiles and takes a swig from the bourbon. "I'm just done tryin' to outrun fate. I'm a fuck-up like Frank. Ian's crazy like Monica. You're gonna be stuck here forever. Debbie's gonna be knocked up before she's sixteen. And Carl's gonna end up in jail. Why keep fightin' the inevitable?"

"Hear, hear," Frank says and clinks his beer can against the bourbon bottle that Lip's still clutching.

But Fiona doesn't take her eyes off Lip. "You don't believe that."

"Try me."

Fiona shakes her head slowly and turns from him like he isn't even worthy of a response. Lip can't watch her as she trudges up the stairs. Seeing her leave right now hurts too much, even if he doesn't want her help, doesn't want her to care. He is alone now without either of them.

"Fuck 'em," Frank mumbles, shambling back toward the kitchen and a fresh can of beer.

Lip stands alone in the living room for a long moment. How did everything get so fucked up? How did he ever believe it could be anything but?

Resolutely, he takes a sip to get himself back on course. Then he follows Frank.

* * *

 

Around two in the morning, Lip startles, realizing that he was dozing off. He is seated on the stairs, his legs stretched out into the kitchen and he's got the bottle clutched under his arm like a teddy bear. Carl has just let himself in the backdoor, trying carefully to be quiet. He stops cold when he spots Lip.

Carl takes in the scene and then he asks Lip with no surprise at all, "You couldn't even make it a week?"

Lip shrugs.

Carl removes a couple cans of yams and a bag of brown 'n serve rolls from his backpack and sets them on the counter. Then he sits down beside Lip and takes the bourbon from him.

Carl takes a swig and wipes his mouth before asking, "You remember when you thought that retard baby was yours?"

"What?" Lip gasps, uncertain if this question is real or some horrid hallucination.

"You know. That retarded Chinese kid with the—"

"I remember," Lip cuts him off, lungs tightening in panic, "What about it?"

"You thought it was yours, right?"

"Yeah. Before."

"What were you gonna do?"

"Um…" Lip closes his eyes, trying to find his words through the sludge in his brain and the uneasiness in his belly, "She was givin' him up for adoption."

"Didn't you want your kid?"

Lip stares out at the vinyl tile in front of them, watches his little blonde kid playing with plastic cups, clapping them against the floor just like Liam and Carl and Debbie did when they were little.

"I did," he croaks.

"What were you gonna do if she wanted to keep it? Get a job, right? Were you gonna—"

"Why're you askin' me this?" Lip snaps. Then he starts shaking his head fervently as he asserts, "I don't wanna talk about it."

"Fine," Carl snaps back, "Forget it."

"Jesus, Carl! Where the hell have you been?" Ian scolds, surprising them both as he comes pounding down the stairs.

"Why do  _you_  care?" Carl replies.

"You know how late it is?"

"You used to stay out all night."

"Yeah, well, I was a lot older than you."

"That's bullcrap!"

"You have any idea what could happen to you?"

"You're so full of shit! Why don't you go  _home_?"

Lip stumbles off to the living room, leaving the two of them to argue.

Frank is sprawled out across the carpet. Lip assumes he's already passed out, but as Lip plops down on the floor, he sees that Frank is awake.

Lip presses his palms into his eyes, causing himself to see all sorts of weird bright afterimages. He increases the pressure, trying to make everything disappear. When he releases his hands, however, everything is still exactly the same; everything is still shit.

"You ever think we'd be better off if you were dead?" he asks Frank.

"My self-preservation instinct is much stronger than my desire to be a martyr."

"Right," Lip sighs, laying flat on his back and knitting his hands over his chest.

He thinks about how Ian had once called Lip a cockroach and meant it as a compliment. It doesn't really seem like something to be proud of anymore.

* * *

 

Lip's head feels like someone is sitting on it. For a second he thinks that Liam must be playing a joke on him, but then Lip grasps that there is no one or no thing weighing down on his skull—it's just throbbing that badly.

He lets out a tiny, groan-whimper hybrid sound as he forces his eyes open a crack.

He is face to face with Frank who's still passed out, mouth slack, drool pooling on the filthy carpet.

"Fuck," Lip whispers, recoiling. The movement creates a sharp pain and woozy sensation in his head, though. He whimpers again.

Then he realizes what has woken him in the first place—someone's hand is in the pocket of Lip's jeans.

"What the hell?" Lip mumbles, rolling over to see who is behind him and immediately wincing at the pain this causes.

Ian pulls his hand out of Lip's pocket and sits back on his heels.

"Where's the keys for Amanda's car?" Ian asks.

"What?"

"The keys for the BMW. I need them."

Lip presses a palm against his forehead and closes his eyes, but it doesn't help the throbbing at all.

"What?" he repeats.

Ian sighs and glances at Frank before looking back at Lip with exasperation. "I need the keys for Amanda's car."

"Why?" Lip croaks. His throat feels like it's stuffed with rags.

"I gotta go somewhere."

"Where?"

"None of your business."

"Runnin' away?"

Ian has the gall to look offended at this question. "Why would I take Amanda's car if I was?"

Lip shrugs, immediately regretting that movement for the way it makes his brain reverberate. "Total Monica move. Seems up your alley."

Ian's glare is cold. "Gimme the keys."

"No. Not 'til you tell me where you're goin'."

"Gimme the fucking keys."

"No destination, no keys."

"Fine," Ian says, "I'm driving to Green Bay."

Lip laughs. "Why the fuck would you drive to Green Bay on Thanksgiving?"

"None of your business."

"We don't even know anyone there."

"Gimme the keys."

"Nope," Lip replies, crawling to his feet. He does his best to hide how difficult this is as he steps over Frank's motionless body and declares, "You're not drivin' anywhere."

Lip makes his way into the kitchen and picks up the empty coffee pot sadly. It seems like an overwhelming amount of effort to fill it with water, pour it in the reservoir, get the coffee from the cabinet, unfold a filter…why can't there just  _be_  coffee when he needs it?

But Ian has followed him in from the living room and brought the argument with him. "You don't get to decide whether I go or not."

"That's true," Lip concedes, glancing over at the empty cans of Old Style strewn across the kitchen table and quickly busying himself with filling the coffee pot, "I can't stop you from goin' to Green Bay. But as the person responsible for Amanda's car, I do kinda have a right to decide you're not allowed to drive it anywhere."

"Come  _on_. I'm not fooling around."

"Isn't there like, uh, a train or a bus or somethin'?"

Ian folds his arms across his chest and leans forcefully against the refrigerator, causing the contents inside to rattle.

"Stomp around all you want," Lip says, pouring the water into the reservoir and inclining his head slightly toward the window, "But it's snowin' and you barely have any experience drivin' to begin with. I wouldn't let you take that car to Jewel let alone Wisconsin."

"I drive fine."

"When? When do you ever drive? Or do you have a secret car no one knows about? To go with all your secret lives? Should just take that one then."

Ian broods as Lip spoons ground coffee into the filter.

"Of course," Lip says, flipping the switch to brew and leaning back against the counter with a smile, "I could always drive you."

"No," Ian says with wide eyes, "No way."

"Why? What's the big secret?"

"Nothing. I just…you can't come with. You can't be there."

"Okay," Lip says easily as he plucks a coffee mug from the shelf, "Take it or leave it. Either I drive you or you find some other way to get up to Green Bay on a national holiday in the snow."

Ian puts his head back and glares at the ceiling. Lip does nothing to hide his pleasure at Ian's frustration. Fuck him and all his secrets. Fuck him and his life that none of the rest of them get to be a part of.

"I'm picking up Mandy," Ian blurts out.

It's as if the words have physically pushed Lip back an inch or two.

"Oh," Lip says, struggling to react coolly, to know how he should react at all, "Mandy's in Green Bay?"

"Yeah. That's where she went when she took off. They got some family up there."

"Oh." Lip doesn't know what else to say. He doesn't know what to do other than to try and sound as disinterested as possible. For some reason, this is important. "Why's she need you to get her?"

"It's a bad situation."

"What does that mean?"

"I don't know," Ian admits, "She wouldn't say more than that."

"Shit."

"Yeah."

"Why did she call you? Hasn't she got, like, twenty brothers she could call?"

Ian gives Lip a look and reminds him without a word how worthless most of the Milkoviches are.

"What about Mickey?"

Ian shakes his head. "She doesn't wanna see Mickey. She knows he's mad at her for taking off."

"Yeah, but…that wouldn't stop him from gettin' her outta whatever situation she's in, right? Even Mickey's not that much of a dick."

"Of course not." Then Ian sighs helplessly and says, "She called  _me_ , though. I can't just leave her there, Lip."

"No, we can't." Lip places the mug back on the shelf and instead grabs a travel mug, "Get dressed. If we head out soon, we should be able to get up there and back home before dinner."

Ian doesn't rush to follow Lip's orders, though. Instead he stands there scowling. He appears hesitant to speak, but then he does.

"What's she gonna think if I show up there with you?"

"That you did what you had to do to get up there."

Defeat settles into Ian's shoulders and Lip can see the last bit of fight folding.

"Don't be a dick to her," Ian warns.

"You really think I would do that? What kind of a person do you think I am?"

Ian holds his empty hands up and gestures towards the beer can-strewn table as he walks for the stairs.

"I don't even know anymore," he says.

As Ian disappears upstairs, Lip looks back over the tableau of last night's shame. Oddly, it makes him want another drink.

In lieu of that, he leaves the scene of the crime and goes off in search of some Excederin.

* * *

 

The trip begins inauspiciously. The tank is almost empty. Lip hops up and down, freezing while he pumps the gas, and he is immensely annoyed when he gets in the car to find Ian has removed his coat while waiting for him, so toasty is it inside. Lip is about to complain that this is Ian's trip and thus it should be Ian's job to pump the gas, but he swallows the complaint as Ian passes him cash to cover the cost.

Lip says nothing as he tucks the money into his coat pocket and they inch their way through the unplowed streets up to 294.

Just as they finally get going, taking advantage of the fact that hardly anyone is on the expressway at this time of morning on Thanksgiving day, Lip's phone rings. He taps a button to answer the call on the hands-free dock. It's Amanda. She doesn't sound happy.

"You're in my car?"

"How do you know?"

"I can see you on Find My Friends. You're on the expressway."

"You caught me. I'm drivin'. What's up?"

"Come to O'Hare and pick me up."

"What?"

"All the flights have been canceled. I can't get another hotel room. And it's a two hour wait right now for a cab. An hour to get onto the Blue Line. We're about thirty-five minutes away from this turning into that scene in  _Titanic_  when they lock the gates on the steerage people. I really don't want to be here to witness that."

"Shit."

"So come get me. I told my parents I'll just spend Thanksgiving at your place."

"That's presumptuous."

"Well, you would've invited me, right?"

"Maybe."

"Okay, fine.  _Ian_  would've invited me."

In the passenger seat, Ian laughs.

Lip rolls his eyes. "Clued into his hero complex already, huh?"

"I don't think extending basic courtesy really counts as a hero complex, but, then, we can't all be you, Lip."

"Jesus. You want me to pick you up or not?"

"I don't want you to. I expect you to. Get my car over here now."

"Fine."

Lip ends the call and shoots Ian an apologetic look. Ian's not interested in receiving it, though. He's busily texting someone.

Wading through the crowd of cars outside the United terminal, however, Ian finally decides it's worth the effort of actually talking to Lip.

"If we take her all the way back to the Yards and then backtrack all the way back up here," he says, "we're gonna lose more than two hours, and we haven't even left the city yet."

This isn't untrue. Lip isn't sure what to say, though. They can't exactly just bail on Amanda while using her car. The thought is interrupted as they spot her.

Lip watches as Ian gets out and loads Amanda's bags into the trunk for her. As the two of them get into the car, Lip gives them a second to get settled and put on their seatbelts. Then he turns to face Amanda and asks, "Wanna come with us to Green Bay?"

"Why are you going to Green Bay?"

"Rescue mission to save my ex-girlfriend. Our ex-girlfriend, actually," Lip says, gesturing between himself and Ian, "We both dated her."

"Well, that's interesting," Amanda remarks, "What are you rescuing her from?"

"We don't know."

"Interesting again. Okay. Count me in, I guess."

Ian doesn't look terribly impressed.

Lip asks him, "You got a better plan?"

Ian turns his head and faces the window as his response.

As they snake out of the airport and back onto the highway, Amanda undoes her seatbelt and leans over the front seat to turn on the stereo.

"No," Lip commands, batting her hand away from the buttons.

"Why not?" She asks, "We've got hours ahead of us."

"Lip's hung over," Ian tells her with sarcastic cheer, "He got drunk off his ass with our dad last night."

Amanda smacks Lip upside the head.

"The fuck?!" he cries.

She hits him again, this time from the other side.

"Hey!" Lip flinches, "I'm tryin' to drive!"

"Why are you such an idiot? Seriously, what the  _hell_ is wrong with you?"

Lip doesn't have an answer for that. Fortunately, Ian and Amanda don't seem interested in hearing anything he has to say anyway. They both settle into their phones and Lip drives on, the car a rolling container of uncomfortable silence.

* * *

 

The trip up to Green Bay is long and tense. The road gets worse as snow continues to fall and they start encountering more and more cars on the side of the road or spun out across the lanes, blinkers flashing.

Lip grits his teeth and steers with a death grip. He may have more experience driving in the snow than Ian or Amanda, but it's still not much.

After working their way around a particularly nasty-looking collision near Racine, Amanda declares they need to take a pit stop, and Lip doesn't argue.

They park at a Citgo station and Lip gratefully takes the opportunity for a cigarette. Neither Ian nor Amanda waits for him, though. This shouldn't be surprising, he figures, as he watches them hurry into the store; they've barely spoken to him at all for the past two hours, both acting like Lip's drinking the night before was somehow a personal affront.

He wants a fresh cup of coffee. He needs it. But he takes his time finishing his smoke. Despite the big flakes of snow falling, he can clearly see into the little glass box of a building. He sees Ian and Amanda messing around by the rotating hot dogs and Icee machines, shoving each other playfully the same way Ian used to with Mandy. He used to roughhouse with Lip, too, but that feels like a lifetime ago. Ian's hated him for so long.

Lip exhales and shifts his gaze to the empty winter sky. He remembers how, years ago, Ian came back from his first ROTC overnight camping trip in Wisconsin, how Ian had been so excited to tell Lip about all the stars you could see in that sky.

"Light pollution," Lip whispers out loud without meaning to, the same explanation he'd given Ian back then.

But Ian had gone on to surprise Lip, recounting the different constellations he'd picked out, knowledge stashed away from their summer of Sagan. Ian had listened. And remembered.

Lip crushes the cigarette under his boot and swipes the back of his hand across his face. The wind is making him tear up.

It's blessedly warm inside the gas station. Lip peels his gloves off his red, frozen hands and makes his way over to the coffee dispensers. A few aisles over, he can hear Amanda and Ian reading the nutritional contents of various items to each other, remarking over how bad all the 'healthy' snacks are.

He does his best to ignore them and focuses instead on pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup, mixing in some powdered creamer, fitting on the lid extra carefully. As he's doing so, though, Ian wanders over, swinging a bag of almonds in one hand and a bottle of water in the other.

"Want coffee?" Lip asks him.

Ian nods and Lip begins to fill a second cup.

As Lip keeps an eye on the steaming hot stream of liquid, Ian fidgets with the label on his water bottle. Lip can tell Ian's working up to ask him something.

"You gonna be okay seeing Mandy?" Ian asks, keeping his head down.

Lip swallows and releases the dispenser button. "Why wouldn't I be any less okay than I was this morning?"

"Well, with Amanda here, I mean."

"What? You don't think I'm thrilled about the prospect of a four-hour drive back with two of my ex-girlfriends in the same car?"

Ian barks out a nervous laugh, having apparently just now thought about the trip back.

"Yeah," Lip says as he fastens the top on Ian's coffee, "Thank god I'm off the wagon."

That wipes the smile off Ian's face. He takes his coffee and walks back over to Amanda.

Lip glares at the two of them as he makes his way over to a display of shrink-wrapped Danishes. He rifles through the different options, each one less appealing than the last, killing time and hoping that they'll check out and not wait for him before heading to the car. That way he could buy something from behind the counter, a couple little sample-sized bottles or something easy to drop in his coffee or keep in his pocket, something to make this day marginally more bearable.

Then he realizes that he is thinking this and stops, appalled at himself.

He takes a shuddery breath, grabs a Danish randomly and marches over to the counter.

"That'll be it?" The clerk asks after ringing up the Danish and the coffee.

Lip hesitates, his eyes traveling up to the wall of liquor options behind the counter.

"Pack of Marlboro Reds," he says, dragging his gaze down to his wallet. He feels shaky as he pays.

He's grateful then as Ian and Amanda head up to the counter, all cheer and giggles as they plop down their selections. Lip steps back from them, happy to have the spell broken and to get the fuck away from those liquor bottles and whatever the hell thoughts were possessing him.

"You all right?" Amanda asks as she pauses to re-wrap her scarf before heading out, "You look like you're gonna throw up."

"I'm fine," Lip says, busying himself with the top flap on his coffee so he doesn't have to make eye contact with her.

As they make it back to the car, however, Lip catches Ian watching him.

* * *

 

The trip is even more slow-going past Racine. The snow is falling heavy now and they're inching their way up 43, coming to a full stop frequently for spun-out cars, salt trucks, and plows. The BMW is dead silent inside, no music, no conversation, only the sound of the snow crunching beneath the tires and Lip's occasional sharp intakes of breath every time he has to pump the breaks.

It's warm, though. Cozy, even, if you're not the one doing the driving. Amanda shucks off her coat and puts her legs up across the back seat, engrossed in her phone. By the time they hit Milwaukee, Ian has dozed off.

The highway is clearer in Milwaukee proper, and Lip eases up a little. He hasn't realized until now that he's been hunched over the steering wheel. His neck and shoulders ache as he sits back into a more natural driving position.

He hazards a quick glance at Ian, but he's zonked.

It occurs to Lip that he should've asked Fiona if Ian's been sleeping much, if he's been eating at all. They've got to do better about that, be better about making sure he's taking care of himself.

Lip's stomach goes acidic as he thinks about what's going to happen when Ian leaves—when he's all alone downstate, who the fuck is gonna look after him? What's going to happen when he's down there, no friends, no family…How's he even going to meet people? Lip doesn't suppose there's so much as a gay bar in Centralia—that's bible thumping  _Footloose_  country—that's gotta mean hooking up on the sly with whatever shady dudes happen to make themselves available. And Lip knows exactly what kind of shady dudes always come looking for Ian…

He swallows hard, fixing his eyes more firmly on the blur of whiteness and red brake lights in front of him.

It makes him furious, Ian choosing to put himself in such a depressing, lonely, stupid situation, all to make some dumb point to everybody about his independence, how he doesn't need any of them, doesn't need a family, doesn't need anyone. It's selfish and childish, fucking idiotic…

Lip notices he's digging his fingernails into his palms around the smooth leather of the steering wheel. He lightens his grip and it's painful, releasing his nails from his flesh.

He repositions his hands and thinks about what Amanda said yesterday, that Lip's become obsessed with Ian the past few months. It's not an  _obsession_ , though. It's not like that. She doesn't get it because she doesn't have siblings she gives a shit about; she doesn't understand the responsibility here. She doesn't understand that Lip is all any of them has got. He's all that stands between the Gallaghers and the rest of the world, but he's failing terribly at every new whack-a-mole problem that pops up. He's exhausted, but he can't just stop.

Ian dozed off holding his gas station coffee. Lip can see it out of the corner of his eye, drooping precariously as Ian's grip grows more slack.

It  _is_  strange, Lip thinks, that he worries more about Ian now than when he ran away. It was easier then, easier to imagine everything was okay. God, all those moronic happy fantasies Lip spun in his mind to assure himself Ian was fine, having the time of his fucking life…

Lip reaches over and grabs the coffee cup before it spills, gently lifts it from Ian's hand, and places it in the cup holder between their seats.

It wasn't just when Ian ran away that Lip made up that imaginary life for him, though. It was always second nature for Lip to dream up some easier, happier, safer life for Ian; it meant Lip didn't have to worry. Knowing the reality now, it's almost impossible to cope.

"I should've bought a coffee too," Amanda says.

"You wanna stop at the next oasis?"

"Nah, I'd like to actually make it back in time to have some turkey tonight."

"Drink Ian's, then," Lip offers, tilting his head toward the cup holder, "Gonna be cold by the time he wakes up."

"Hmmm," Amanda murmurs, not really considering this.

"Too good for backwash, huh?"

She shrugs, "It's probably cold already anyway."

"That's true," Lip admits and takes a sip of his own lukewarm coffee.

The silence returns and Lip is disappointed. He thought maybe she was thawing enough to talk to him, but apparently he's still on the hook.

Or not. A few minutes later, boredom seems to get the best of Amanda. She rests her elbows on the front seat and peers over at Ian.

"He's really out."

"Yeah," Lip agrees, "He always slept like a brick."

"My sister too. I once painted dirty words on her eyelids with nail polish while she was sleeping."

"When was this?"

"I was seven. First time my parents sent me to therapy. Definitely not the last."

Lip smiles to himself as he recounts, "I once got Ian to cut Fiona's hair while she was sleepin'."

"Ugh," Amanda squawks, "Assholes."

"Yeah," Lip laughs, still pleased by his prank all these years later, "Ian used to do anything I told him to. It was great."

She stretches out her hands in front of the main heat vent to warm them and remarks, "He told me he thought you were psychic when he was a kid."

Lip grins at this. "We used to play this game," he explains, "Where we'd lay in bed at night and try and read each other's minds. Guess what the other was thinkin', you know?"

"And you were good at that?"

"Ah, yeah. He wasn't exactly a complicated kid. I could usually just pick one of, I dunno, half a dozen things and be right. Baseball. School. Karate. Whatever."

"But he couldn't read your complex, sophisticated brain?"

"I just always made sure to think of somethin' he wouldn't guess. Thermonuclear Physics, somethin' like that."

"You were spending a lot of time as a kid thinking about thermonuclear physics?"

"No, but I'd read the term somewhere. It was enough to just think about that. Ian wouldn't know the difference anyway. If I told him, 'No, I wasn't thinkin' about the Sox, I was thinkin' about fusion,' he didn't question it."

"You were a manipulative little bastard."

"You surprised?"

"Not at all."

Lip switches lanes carefully then decides to try and play this hand.

"Listen," he says in a lower, conspiratorial tone, "When we get done with all this crap and we get back tonight, how 'bout you and I split? Go back to that Hilton? Get your dad to pay for more room service?"

"Oh," Amanda says, shaking her head and sitting back away from him, "No, no, no. We are not doing that."

"Come on. Fiona's a shit cook. And our house is not the place to go for one of those big happy family Thanksgivings. We don't do those."

Amanda takes her phone out, and she's back to ignoring him again.

Having fallen in love with the idea, though, Lip goes for broke.

"We could get a room somewhere else. Somewhere with a Jacuzzi. You ever had Jacuzzi sex?"

She gives no indication that she has heard him, no indication that he is even here at all.

"You'd love that," he continues even though he's unable to keep the tinge of desperation out of his voice, "Havin' your dad pay for us to fuck in a Jacuzzi? You could even tell him. I won't care."

But his words just hang there in the cold. Amanda's playing some game now—he can hear the bloops and beeps as she fires each little shot against his dignity.

He closes his mouth resolutely. Fuck everybody. He's not even gonna try making anyone else happy ever again. He's just gonna keep his mouth shut forever and live his life for him. Fuck all of these sanctimonious, judgmental assholes. He doesn't need their shit. He doesn't even care at all.

Lip casts a narrow-eyed glare over at Ian, lumping him in with this silent rant. Fuck him too.

Lip puts his eyes back on the road, ready to really settle in and luxuriate in his seething. But something makes him glance back at Ian again.

Ian is still sleeping, his head hanging down toward his chest. But he's not moving. Breathing. His chest isn't moving, and Lip can't hear him snoring anymore.

Lip holds his breath and tries to listen, his eyes darting now between the road and Ian's pale, motionless face.

"Turn off that fuckin' game," Lip hisses at Amanda.

His tone must frighten her because she does turn off the game immediately without a word. And now she's watching him watch Ian. He can feel her eyes, but it doesn't matter.

"Ian," he whispers, pulling the BMW off onto the shoulder of the highway, inching it to a slow rolling stop.

"Ian," Lip repeats louder now as he puts the car into park, still getting no response.

Lip tears off his seatbelt and leans into the passenger seat. He takes Ian by the shoulders and shakes him.

"Ian! Ian!"

Then Ian's eyes are open and they're the same big dumb eyes Lip's been looking into his whole life

"The hell are you doing?" Ian asks.

"Nothin'," Lip manages to find enough breath to say.

Ian jerks away from him sleepily and grumbles, "Don't fucking touch me."

Lip sits back in his own seat, heart pounding high in his throat as Ian rearranges himself toward the far side of the passenger seat, resting his head against the window and slipping back to sleep.

Lip puts both hands firmly back on the wheel, fixes his gaze straight ahead and focuses all his mental energy on getting the car back onto the highway.

A moment after he accomplishes this, Lip feels a hand on his left shoulder. It rests there reassuringly for a few seconds before Amanda speaks.

"You still okay driving?" she asks.

"You're welcome to take over if you want."

"You really want my mad Miami driving skills in this weather?"

"Guess I'm okay driving, then."

They both watch the road quietly as Lip steers them forward.

"You're doing a good job," Amanda tells him. She squeezes his shoulder then takes her hand back.

It feels cold, having had something there and now having nothing at all.

* * *

 

"Is this it?"

"Think so."

Lip turns off the engine. He and Amanda peer out at the squat little apartment building while Ian double checks the address Mandy texted him.

"Yeah," Ian nods over his phone, "Apartment 1B. This is 1A. 1B must be the door on the other side there."

None of them move.

"I feel like we should've brought a gun," Lip says.

"Don't worry; I did."

"Jesus, Ian, what the fuck?"

"I don't know what kind of trouble she's in. 'A bad situation.' That could mean anything."

"Jesus," Lip mutters again, "You spent too much time in that house. You're turnin' into one of them."

"Hey, for all we know, her bad situation in there  _is_  Milkoviches. You think they're not gonna be armed?"

"So, what? You've gone native? Thinkin' like the Indians now?"

"James Fenimore Cooper reference," Amanda laughs, "See? You  _did_  retain something from our 19th century lit class!"

Lip ignores her. "And why do you have access to guns anyway," he snaps at Ian, "Thought Mickey said he was keepin' all that shit away from you. Christ, what a joke."

Ian gets out of the car and slams the door. Lip watches as he stalks up toward the building, doing his best to stomp dramatically through the drifts of snow.

"We should probably stay here, right?" Amanda asks.

Lip watches Ian make his way closer to the apartment.

"I can't let him go in without back-up," he says. Then he turns to her and asks, "You got anything I can use as a weapon?"

"Hmm." Amanda glances around the back seat. Then she reaches down to the floorboards and picks up the snow scraper. "Wanna bring a snow scraper to a gunfight?"

"Shit," Lip groans, but he accepts it. He grasps the scraper tightly and plunges out into the snow, following in Ian's tracks.

The snowdrifts are harder to traverse than Lip anticipated, and it's taking him a while to make his way to the far side of the building. This is annoying not only because it's exhausting, but also because the closer he creeps in this dead quiet snow, the closer he gets to  _her_.

Lip has never been guilty of spending too much time thinking about Mandy. It used to be just carelessness—or selfishness, maybe. But after…what happened…it became much more deliberate not to think about her. She has her own lead-lined safety deposit box in the back of Lip's skull, a few slots away from the one where he keeps Karen, a safe distance between them.

But ever since Ian said her name this morning, Mandy has been creeping at the periphery of Lip's thoughts. She was always so good at creeping, so quiet on her feet, so invisible so much of the time. She is easy to forget, but then she haunts you, a bloodstain on the floor that keeps resurfacing no matter how many times you scrub, refusing to be forgotten.

He doesn't want to see her; he doesn't want to deal with that, all those other safety deposit boxes she's going to yank down out of the shelves behind her, kick across the floor. Not now. Especially not now.

But then he rounds the corner of the building to the little inset entry for apartment 1B, and Lip knows there's no turning back. Ian's just reached the front door, and Mandy's going to be on the other side of it. He can't leave either of them to deal with whatever horrors Mandy has traipsed into now.

Ian has already knocked and Mandy is opening the door as Lip steps onto the concrete.

"Hey," Ian says in a voice softer and kinder than anything he reserves for Lip, "I missed you."

"Oh, shit," Mandy mutters as she sees Lip step up beside Ian, brandishing his snow scraper.

"Who the fuck's at the door?" a voice calls from the apartment, growing louder with approach.

"Um, surprise?" Mandy says, looking to Ian with an apologetic yet terrified smile.

"Oh, shit," Lip says as he recognizes the voice.

"What's 'oh shit'?" Amanda asks cheerfully, pulling up the rear covered in snow.

Then she sees Ian and Mickey staring at each other from opposite sides of the door.

"Oh!" she exclaims, stopping short with drama-hungry delight on her face, "Oh,  _Shit_!"


	10. Turkey Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even going to get into all the reasons why this update has taken so stupidly long. Instead I just want to extend a sincere apology and thank anyone who has stuck with this story so long. The good news is, you will not have a long wait at all for the final chapter after this--I will be posting it this Friday, 1/22.
> 
> I also want to say thank you to the folks who've left me such kind and thoughtful reviews. The fact that you take time out of your lives to read this story, let alone write about your reactions to it, will never not just touch me and amaze me so much. I re-read every last comment so often it's embarrassing to admit, but, anyway, you guys are the reason I kept on working on this, and I'm so very grateful to you.
> 
> Last, as always, thank you to the world's greatest, most patient beta, Avalonia. There is so much that would not exist or be nearly so nice without you. <3

"Come on in," Mandy says after the world's longest awkward pause.

Nobody moves, though. Lip looks from Mickey to Ian and back to Mickey again, trying to gauge whether they're on the precipice of a fight or a scene or some big emotional breakdown from one or the other. But Mickey doesn't look angry; he looks surprised and cautious more than anything. And Ian's gone all stone-faced. Who knows what the fuck that means.

"Well, I'm coming inside," Amanda announces, shoving past Lip and Ian, "It's freezing out here."

The Milkoviches both step aside to let her through, wearing identical expressions of annoyed confusion. Amanda unwinds her scarf casually as she disappears down the hallway into the apartment proper. Lip has to screw his mouth shut tight to keep from smiling at how impervious she is to their disgruntlement. It wouldn't be good to smile right now. God knows Ian isn't smiling.

"Come on," Mandy repeats, taking Ian by the arm and dragging him inside. He doesn't look at Mickey as he passes, and just allows her to lead him like an obedient sleepwalker.

Mickey just watches them trek down the hallway and doesn't move or say a thing, almost as if he's afraid to. Then he turns back to Lip and for half a second it feels like Mickey is looking to him for some kind of commiseration or guidance. That sense passes immediately, however, and Mickey hardens over into his usual defensive position.

Alone now, they glare at each other, each daring the other to make the first move. Somehow, despite their previous interactions, Lip has always perceived Mickey as abnormally tiny. But here they are now standing eye to eye, shrimp vs. shrimp. One shrimp's got about twenty more pounds of muscle, though. The other one's got a plastic snow scraper. Lip's hand tightens unconsciously on the grip.

Then Mickey folds before anything actually happens.

"Shut the fuckin' door," he mutters and trudges down the hall.

Once Mickey is out of sight, Lip exhales. He steps inside and pulls the door closed, grateful to be out of the wind and the snow, but from here he is uncertain what to do. He takes his time stomping the snow off his boots onto the damp, inadequate little mat while he considers this. There isn't one reason compelling him to follow everyone else—in fact, there's about half a dozen reasons he should just go back to the car, have a cigarette instead, maybe make a break for it and try to find a Dunkin Donuts, or something, to wait this shit out.

But Ian might need him. That thought gets Lip's feet moving beneath him.

He pads down the hallway, passing a dark bathroom and a couple of closed doors. The hallway terminates at a sitting room and a surprisingly bright, modern little kitchen. It's weird to reconcile that Mandy lives here. Lip has never really pictured her anyplace…nice.

Ian and Amanda are seated alone at the kitchen table. Amanda is wearing a blandly pleasant expression on her face, a contrast to Ian beside her, glowering down at his lap. Mandy is fussing over him, fruitlessly trying to make everything feel normal.

"You want coffee?" she asks Ian, "I can put a pot on."

"Nah, that's okay," Ian says. He glances up then quickly lowers his eyes again. Mickey is standing about as far away as he can get from Ian in this tight space, but his gaze is fixed firmly on him. Lip marvels at the pressure of that gaze. No wonder Ian's been cracking under it.

"How 'bout beer? You want a beer?" Mandy offers next. Her Suzy Homemaker act always struck Lip as one of the sadder aspects of her character, as if these anemic attempts at domesticity could ever spackle over the brutality of her world.

"Sure," Ian replies with no enthusiasm, "I'll take a beer."

"You shouldn't—" Mickey starts to say but cuts himself off. He takes a sip of his own beer and looks away.

"Forget it," Ian mumbles, "I don't want anything. "

Lip pulls out the third chair and sits down next to Ian.

Mandy narrows her eyes at him. She doesn't let go of her hostess act, but her tone drops as she growls, " _You_ want a beer?"

"No," Ian and Amanda answer for him simultaneously.

Lip's ears grow hot as Mandy and Mickey exchange some kind of a look. To Lip's disconcertment, Mickey mouths something at her, implying that he knows about what happened.

"I'd love some coffee," Amanda pipes up, "You want some coffee, Lip?"

"Sure," he replies thoughtlessly, still watching Mickey and trying to figure out how he knows, how much he knows.

Having gotten no response from Mandy, Amanda gets up and goes to the coffeemaker herself.

"I'm Amanda, by the way," she says as she picks up the carafe, "I don't know if—"

"I know who you are," Mandy grumbles as she snatches it from Amanda's hand. She shoves Mickey away from the sink and fills the carafe with water.

Amanda backs off and retakes her seat at the table, her bland smile never wavering.

Despite this awkward ballet happening around them, Ian and Mickey remain locked in their own parallel drama. Ian is still doing his marble statue act, and Mickey is still laser-focused on him from the other side of the room. The tension building between them unnerves Lip. Something is going to happen any second, and it's not going to be good.

"So, were you not really in any trouble, then?" Amanda asks Mandy, "Is this like a _Parent Trap_ kind of thing?"

"This wasn't a cute plan," Ian mutters.

"Anybody want some snacks, or something? I think I have pretzels," Mandy offers, turning her back on them and opening the pantry. She rustles through the stores despite getting no response to her question.

Then Svetlana saunters in from one of the bedrooms, carting Mickey's freshly diapered kid on her hip.

"Yev!" Ian gasps, his whole face coming back to life.

Svetlana pauses as she sees him. "Oh," she asks, "Is secret plan?"

"Sort of," Mandy admits. She gives up on locating the alleged pretzels and steps back from the pantry in defeat.

Svetlana rolls her eyes and deposits the baby in Ian's lap. As she saunters to the sink and washes her hands, she says to Mickey, "See? I told you holiday dinner was set-up. There is not even the turkey."

"The fuck do you know about Thanksgiving dinner?"

"There is supposed to be the turkey. And cranberry sauce. In can, like dog food."

"That's true," Amanda agrees.

"Who is this?" Svetlana demands to know, casting a wary look at the table as she dries her hands.

"I'm Amanda. I'm a friend."

"Hmm," Svetlana grunts, unimpressed. She throws open the refrigerator door and begins inspecting the contents.

"That's Mickey's baby mama," Lip explains to Amanda.

"Svetlana," Ian adds, not taking his eyes off the baby as he bounces him on his knee and grins big. He's besotted with that kid. The sight of this makes Lip's hackles rise. There's no way any of this is going to end well tonight.

"God, you got so big," Ian remarks as he pauses to smooth the baby's hair and soak him in.

"He's talking now," Mandy says, coming over and bending down to smile at him too, "Isn't that amazing?"

"What?" Ian looks to Mickey then Svetlana for confirmation, the happiness faltering on his face.

"Mama, Dada, Baba," Svetlana explains, "He is very advanced."

"I missed so much," Ian murmurs wistfully before he manages to reaffix his smile. He turns the baby to face Mickey and asks, "Who's that, Yev? Is that your Dada?"

"Dada," Yevgeny verifies. He turns his head back toward Ian and repeats, "Dada."

For a second, Ian's eyes seem to be misting, but then he grins big and resumes bouncing his knee. Yevgeny giggles and drools in approval.

"I really like this apartment," Amanda says, as if under the impression she's hanging out with one of her sorority sisters, "It's super cute."

Mandy gives her a suspicious look, trying to suss out mockery. When she can't find any, she drops her eyes and toys with the edge of the counter.

"It's not really mine," she mutters, "I mean, I guess it sorta is, but…"

Svetlana smirks as she lays out some cheese slices on a plate and takes the last seat at the table.

"The boyfriend makes good money," Svetlana explains.

Lip sits back in his chair at this bit of information. He's not jealous, exactly, but he wasn't expecting it. Of course Mandy has a new boyfriend already—there's no reason why she shouldn't; it'd probably be stranger if she didn't—but still…it sets something to tugging inside of him.

"What does he do?" Amanda asks, helping herself to a piece of cheese.

Svetlana casts some side-eye and scoots her chair and the plate further away. Amanda seems oblivious, though.

Lip watches with disbelief as a shy smile flits across Mandy's face. She pushes her hair behind her ear and answers, "He works for Oscar Mayer."

Lip scoffs, "So, he makes hot dogs?"

" _No_. He does accounting."

"Jesus, how old is this douchebag?"

"Twenty-three," Mandy glares at him, "What the hell difference does that make?"

"How'd you guys meet?" Amanda asks. Her girlfriendish tone is alarming. The last thing Lip wants is some kind of alliance between these two.

Worse still, Mandy seems to respond to this friendliness. The same shy smile appears again as she says, "It's embarrassing."

"Tell us!" Amanda teases her.

Mandy bows her head as she mumbles, "At a fucking Applebees."

"Aww," Amanda coos, "That's so Wisconsin."

The coffeemaker beeps and Mandy seems relieved for an excuse to leave the spotlight. She retrieves the carafe and begins filling a few mugs.

But Amanda doesn't seem ready to let go of the first conversation she's managed to create here.

"Were you there for a singles' night or something?" She asks.

"Fuck, no," Mandy replies. She carries the first two cups over and explains, "I was waiting tables."

Lip chuckles involuntarily at the image of Mandy in an Applebee's uniform. The death glare she gives him stops that cold.

"Ugh," Amanda commiserates, "I used to cater-waiter in the summer. The pits."

Mandy makes a face at this unfamiliar term. Posh high school girls slumming it at country club weddings all summer long are never going to be something she could relate to. Amanda may have just lost her new BFF, much to Lip's relief.

"He treating you right?" Ian asks quietly as Mandy sets a cup in front of him.

She hesitates, lowering her eyes before whispering back, "Yeah."

Amanda has made her way to the counter and retrieved the other two cups.

"Are we gonna get to meet him?" She asks as she brings them over.

"Nah," Mandy says, still giving Amanda a wary look even as she answers, "He's in Ohio to see his folks for the holiday. He wanted me to come, but I really need to study."

Ian sits up straighter in surprise. "You taking classes?"

Mandy wilts at last from all this attention

"It's just GED prep courses," she mumbles, retreating to the other side of the kitchen, "If I use Mike's address, they don't cost anything."

Ian starts to reply to this, but then Mickey finally explodes.

"Are you gonna say fuckin' anything to me?" Mickey shouts.

Ian closes his mouth and hastily returns his attention to Yevgeny. Ignoring Mickey's exasperation, Ian takes a moment to smooth down the baby's hair then turn him to face outward on his lap.

Without looking up, Ian asks calmly, "How you doing, Mick?"

"Oh, just great. Really great."

Ian nods and finally meets Mickey's eyes.

"You look good," Ian says.

"You don't. You look like shit."

Ian sets the wriggling baby onto the floor and gives him an empty water bottle from the table. Yevgeny crinkles the bottle then gleefully begins bashing it against the table leg.

"You been sleepin'?" Mickey asks.

Ian shrugs.

"Eatin'? You takin' your meds? All of them? On time and shit?"

"Mickey," Mandy warns him, "Lay off."

"No, I'm not layin' off," he snaps. He gestures at Lip and explains to her, "I knew I shouldn't have left Asshole in charge of him. Look at him. He looks like a goddamn corpse."

" _In charge_?" Ian repeats incredulously, "What the fuck?"

"That's not what I meant," Mickey backpedals, "You know what I mean. Keepin' an eye on you. Lookin' out for you."

"Babysitting me."

"That's not…Ian, come on. Look at the crap you been pullin' the last few months. That's not right. That's not…good. All right? I'm really fuckin' worried about you. You're not—"

Ian scoffs. "Well, hey, you can stop worrying. That's not your job anymore."

"The fuck does that mean? Of course I'm not gonna stop worryin'. Not when you're doin' all this crazy shit. Not when—"

"I'm doing fine!" Ian roars, startling them all. Then he pounds the table in frustration and stands up, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste. He notices Yevgeny looking up at him, though, and Ian's intensity fades into exhaustion.

"I gotta go," he mutters, "Jesus Christ, I gotta get out of here."

Mickey's face is ashen as he takes a step toward him, but Ian immediately stiffens, causing Mickey to pause.

"Ian, don't go," Mandy begs softly.

He shakes his head at her and asks, "Why did you do this?"

"Hey," Mickey says in a voice that's now velvet soft, "Don't get worked up. It's not—"

He stops as Ian gives him a bitter smile.

"You're free, Mickey. All right?" Ian makes a movement with his hand, wiping clean the space between them, "You're free."

He turns on his heel and marches out.

Lip stands up to follow him and collides with Mickey as he too moves forward. They attempt unsuccessfully to sidestep each other before they both freeze.

"Leave him alone," Lip says, "I don't need him losin' his shit on Thanksgiving 'cause of you."

"He's not gonna—" Mickey cuts himself off and tries to shove past Lip, but Lip holds his ground.

Again, they freeze. It's shrimp vs. shrimp once more, staring each other down.

"Get the hell out of my way," Mickey growls.

"No."

"You his bodyguard now too?"

"Somebody's gotta protect him."

"Protect him?" Mickey sputters. His eyebrows look like they're going to fly right off of his head.

Lip swallows hard and tries to make his voice deeper than it naturally is. "Yeah."

Something shifts in Mickey's eyes then—there's now a hint of hesitation—fear, even. He takes a step back.

He shakes his head and declares softly, "I'm not hurtin' him."

Lip also takes a step back. Mickey seems to be asking something from him, some kind of acknowledgement or forgiveness or reassurance or something. Whatever it is, it's desperate. Lip doesn't know what to do with this, so he says nothing. He turns and runs after Ian.

As he propels himself out the front door, Lip stops short. Ian has only made it as far as the concrete pad that serves as kind of a patio. He's got his arms wrapped tight for warmth, and is huddled against a post. He looks embarrassed as he spots Lip.

"I don't have keys to the car," Ian admits.

"Kinda puts a cramp in your dramatic exit, huh?"

Ian says nothing and pulls his arms tighter.

Lip pauses to take out his cigarettes, and is surprised as Ian walks right to him.

"Oh, god," Ian says, "Gimme one."

Lip obliges, passing one over and lighting it for him. Ian is trembling slightly, Lip notes. He really does look like a bit of a corpse today too. The combination is upsetting.

Ian closes his eyes and takes a long, shaky drag.

"You gotta figure out what the fuck you're doin' here," Lip tells him.

Ian nods and rubs his temple with his free hand. "I know, I know."

Ian's agitation is making Lip's heart speed up. He tries not to think about Monica, tries not to think about every time he's seen Ian lose it this past year. He wants to be fair. He wants to give Ian a fucking break.

"I should apologize," Ian murmurs, "I shouldn't have walked out like that. I should go back and say I'm sorry. I should go back."

"You really want to?"

"No."

"Then don't. Fuck it."

Ian appears momentarily calmed by this absolution. The agitation comes rushing right back, though, as the door to the apartment bursts open. Mandy, Mickey and Amanda stream out, followed by Svetlana with Yevgeny and his diaper bag on her hip. They're all dressed in full outerwear, and Mandy locks the apartment up behind them.

"Fiona invited everybody for Thanksgiving dinner," Amanda announces, "And the Milkoviches here didn't have any other plans so they're going to come back with us."

Lip stares at her. "When did you talk to Fiona?"

"Just now," she replies with an instructive tone, clearly lying and letting him know he is not to reveal this, "I texted her."

Lip is about to protest, about to tell her just what a stupid-ass idea this is, but then he remembers Ian and turns back to him.

Mickey has reached Ian, of course, and is holding him by the upper arm. Ian has gone completely stiff, eyes enormous.

"I wanna talk to you," Mickey says, putting his head close to Ian's, "For real."

Ian can't seem to say anything back. He's clearly working like hell to maintain a stoic expression, but it's transparent skin over pure panic.

"Not right now," Mickey amends in that same gentle tone as before, "Right now we're gonna go back, you have dinner with your sister, but after that, okay? After that we talk."

Mickey takes the cigarette from Ian's hand and tosses it in this snow.

This seems to break the spell and Ian nods slowly. "Okay."

Mickey smiles. He claps Ian on the shoulder and leads him back toward the parking lot. Mickey's relief seems to spread through all of them a bit. They plunge into the snowy tracks and follow.

Lip is not so easily comforted, however, as he trails behind them through the drifts. Ian may not have been a barrel of delight these past few weeks that Mickey's been gone, but at least he's been relatively stable and staying out of trouble. No more club, no more secret life as far as Lip can tell, no more listless funk. Better a stable, grumpy mope than any of that. But already—already, the reintroduction of Mickey has set Ian teetering on edge. He's gonna lose it tonight, that's for certain. The only question is how massive the fallout from this disaster is going to be.

That overwhelming sense of inevitable doom settles into Lip's stomach once more, the same helpless dread that caused him to lose it last night with Frank. Lip wants to stop his feet from moving him forward, but they are an engine already in motion. He trudges on alongside this strange company, all so oblivious to the fact that they're about to cash in their third-class tickets for the Titanic.

He looks for someone, anyone, among them to be an ally. Somehow he lands on Mandy and gives her a smile that he hopes expresses half a dozen complicated feelings he doesn't know how to put into words.

She doesn't smile back, though. Instead she scowls and says, "Your face looks really weird now."

He watches her tromp on ahead of him and tastes a sharp longing for a drink.

They reach their destination and Svetlana declares, "BMW is shit. Mercedes is superior automobile."

"Better than the Greyhound," Mickey replies, "Three goddamn hours late comin'. How much worse you think it'd be goin'?"

"Ah, shit," Mandy says, "We don't have a baby seat."

"Oh, yes we do," Amanda practically sings, popping the trunk. Lip is baffled as she drags out an honest to god baby seat.

"Why're you drivin' around with that?" He asks.

"I bought it when I was babysitting Liam last year. I'm pretty sure it's adjustable, though. We can make it smaller."

Everyone seems to take this discovery as unremarkable, but Lip continues to stare at Amanda as Mickey and Svetlana start working to buckle in and adjust the seat.

She smiles and holds up three fingers with her thumb crossed over her pinkie in a scout salute. "Always be prepared."

Then she abandons him to help them with the car seat.

Mandy is entertaining Yevgeny while Ian attempts to clear the newly fallen snow off the car. He's using his sleeve to do this for lack of any better tool, and Lip watches him struggle for a good couple minutes before remembering the snow scraper still in his hand.

Lip hustles over to him with the snow scraper, but Ian scowls as soon as he sees it.

"Thanks for helping," Ian mutters and snatches it away.

Lip hangs around uselessly while Ian finishes the job and everyone else works on their tasks. His creeping sense of dread is still present, but his growing resentment is starting to push it to the back. Fuck impending doom. These assholes all deserve to drown in steerage, anyway.

When everybody has finished, they stand back to appraise the situation. There are six adults and a baby, but Amanda's sedan only had five seats total to begin with. With the bulky baby seat taking up one of them now, that only leaves four seats.

"How's this gonna work?" Mickey asks.

"I'm driving," Lip asserts, freeing himself from the issue. Ian and Mickey both shoot him looks that he ignores. He slides into the driver's seat and enjoys a moment of feeling smug. He may not have any muscle advantage, or any other qualities they give a shit about, but he's still got a bit of brain.

"Okay, we can do this," Amanda says, putting on her cruise director tone, "Ian, you take the passenger's seat because you're tallest. The rest of us are little. We can double up."

"No way," Mickey sneers.

Amanda asks him, like a mom speaking to a child, "How else do you propose we do this? You want to ride on the roof? I'm sure we could find some rope."

"Or you could just stay here," Lip calls from the driver's seat, smirking to himself as he adjusts the heat.

He can feel Mickey glaring at him without even having to see it. Lip works hard not to crack up at the mental image and does a few quick shoulder stretches in his plush seat.

"We should take off our coats," Mandy adds.

"Put them up here with me if you want," Ian volunteers from the passenger seat, "That way if you get cold we don't have to stop to pop the trunk."

"Don't think we're gonna be gettin' cold," Mickey remarks as he shrugs out of his coat.

The girls follow suit and soon Ian has a pile of puffy winter coats in his lap, rising nearly to his chin.

Lip twists around in his seat to enjoy the slapstick comedy of Amanda and Mickey and Svetlana and Mandy squeezing into the back and negotiating who's going to sit on whose lap. A slight movement out of the corner of his eye draws Lip's attention, though. He turns back around just in time to catch Ian closing his eyes and burying his nose in Mickey's coat, sneaking a deep inhalation.

Ian opens his eyes, sensing Lip watching at him. Swiftly, he shoves all the coats toward his knees and turns his back to Lip as much as he can.

Once they're all relatively settled, Amanda calls out to Lip from her perch atop Svetlana, "Can you see anything?"

Lip peers into the rearview mirror and can just barely glimpse a sliver of the back window between all of their stacked bodies and heads.

"Take off your hat," he tells Amanda, as if that will make all the difference.

She yanks off her beanie, sending her hair floating outward on a cloud of static electricity. This causes Mickey to scrunch up his nose and bat her hair away from his face, which causes Svetlana to shift and say something sharp in Russian, and her movement forces Amanda and Mandy to reposition themselves in the tight space and Mandy says to someone, "Get your fucking elbow out of me."

"Yeah," Lip says to himself as he puts it into Drive, "Full steam ahead into the Atlantic."

* * *

The car ride down from Green Bay is much more noisy and chaotic than the ride up. It's hot and crowded, and Amanda can't seem to shut up. She's in full party planner mode, peppering her seatmates with questions, babbling on about how cute Yevgeny is, how amazing Mandy's hair is, asking Svetlana what it was that brought her to the US and receiving a very blunt response.

Despite the less than cheerful reception, Amanda does her best to keep people talking, but it's a losing battle with this crowd. Still, she soldiers on, pulling information from everybody one tooth at a time. She will not be defeated.

After about forty minutes of this, Lip can't take anymore. He turns on the radio, preset to that 80s New Wave satellite station Amanda loves. A monotone voice drones on over a sea of synthesizers. All this shit sounds the same.

From the back seat, Amanda cackles, "Oh, my god, this is appropriate."

"Why?" Lip grumbles.

"It's Ian Curtis!"

Hurriedly, Lip switches the station.

Amanda giggles and continues on with whatever crap she's forcing Mandy to talk about. More about her dumb, boring new boyfriend. Guy sounds about as basic as it gets. Lip doesn't see why she seems so enthralled with him.

But Lip's stomach has gone uneasy again. He pretends he's looking to switch lanes and instead checks in on how Ian is doing.

Ian has been dead quiet the whole ride, answering the few questions Amanda lobbed his way with monosyllabic responses and grunts. He's sitting beside Lip now, motionless and blank-faced, but his left hand is in his lap, toying repetitively with the hem of his sweater. Lip returns his eyes briefly to the road then glances back at Ian's fingers. He's rubbing the threads over and over.

Lip puts his eyes back on the road, but he asks Ian quietly, under the music, "You doin' all right?"

Ian pretends he doesn't hear him but repositions his hands so they're folded under his arms.

Lip sighs and glances in the rearview mirror to get a glimpse of what Mickey's up to.

Mickey too has barely uttered a word the whole trip. He's cramped up beside the baby seat, his sister in his lap, and he's got his fist supporting his head, eyes barely open.

But then Mickey meets Lip's eyes in the mirror.

They play chicken for a second before Lip looks away.

He tells himself to just focus on the road, focus on getting through this fucking snow, this fucking day. If he can just get the car back to Chicago, he can ditch them all and be done with this mess. He can hide out in the van, or something, take some time on his own problems, figure out a solution to the mess at school, the mess in his head. Ian is not his problem today. That's Mickey's shit. Or Mandy's. Both those fuckers can deal with whatever mess they're going to have created. Lip is off duty. Just get them home, then he's off the hook for everyone else's shit.

As Lip looks out into the indefinite white of the road laid out in front of him, though, his mind starts to wander. It trips back to another car ride, the spring when he and Ian were briefly both sixteen.

It had been a few weeks since the whole stolen car/getting arrested business, and Lip had been feeling bad about that. Sure, they'd gotten off, but that didn't stop the lingering guilt. The whole incident had really freaked Ian out. Add that to how strangely Ian had reacted to the Clayton thing, and Lip wasn't exactly feeling like the world's greatest big brother.

But then Lip had gotten distracted with Karen again, followed her down her never-ending rabbit hole. He forgot all about Ian acting weird until Fiona brought it up one morning after Ian left for an early shift at the Kash and Grab.

"You know what's going on with him?" Fiona asked as she wiped down Liam in his high chair.

Lip glanced up from his chemistry homework. "Liam?"

"Ian. He's bein'…I dunno, mopey."

"Ian's always mopey."

"No, he's not," Fiona chided. Then she paused at the bottom of the stairs and hollered up at Debbie and Carl, "I don't hear any water running! Get a move on, guys!"

As she returned to clean up Liam's bowl and sippie cup, she explained, "Ian's quiet, not mopey."

"What's the difference?"

"I don't know, but there's a difference. And one of them worries me."

Lip shrugged and returned to his homework. He attempted to concentrate on acids and bases, but the guilt was nibbling away at him again now.

"I've been tryin' to think of something nice to get him for his birthday," Fiona added, "but we really don't have anything extra right now."

This was typical Fiona, thinking you could just buy Ian's happiness with a pellet gun or something—problem solved. Sometimes she had a tendency to think Lip and Ian were still ten years old. The year prior she'd proudly given Lip a promotional pass for a free visit to the planetarium she'd picked up. He'd laughed at her until he realized from her crestfallen face that she genuinely thought that was something he'd still be into. Then he'd teased her about that, a bit more gently, though.

"Can always use more socks," Lip remarked, making a face at Liam, trying to get him to giggle.

"Right," Fiona replied unenthusiastically as she filled the sink with hot water, "And God knows he always needs new jeans. How's he doin' on underwear?"

"How the hell would I know?"

"You share an underwear drawer."

"Guess I've been slackin' on inventorying my brother's underpants. Sorry 'bout that."

Lip got up to release Liam from his chair and continued, "You should ask him about that. He'd love answering all your questions about his underpants. That'd improve his mood."

"Shut up," she smiled, turning her attention to sloshing the cups and plates around the dishpan.

Lip transferred Liam to his playpen in the dining room and returned to his book. He and Fiona worked quietly on their respective tasks for a bit. Upstairs, Debbie and Carl stomped through their morning routines and fought over the sink. There was an odd peacefulness to these familiar sounds. Years later, Lip would realize how much he missed it.

Lip had just gotten back into the swing of chemistry thoughts when Fiona said, "I think it's the whole DNA thing."

"Huh?"

"With Ian. You think that could be it?"

"What? Finding out he has a much lower chance of turning out to be a raging alcoholic narcissist than the rest of us? You think he's mopin' about that?"

"No, I just…" Fiona hesitated, trying to put her thoughts into words as she continued transferring clean glasses to the drainer, "I just think that's kind of a big deal, and we haven't really talked about it. Think maybe he feels weird."

"Why? It's not like it's any different. He's our brother. Doesn't matter what some fuckin' DNA test says."

"Yeah, _we_ know that. But does he know that?"

Debbie came running down the stairs and announced, "Carl stopped up the toilet again!"

She ducked into the downstairs bathroom and slammed the door behind her, locking it lest anyone else try to steal it from her.

"Goddammit," Fiona said, banging off the faucet and stomping up the stairs.

Lip moved the plunger from its place outside the utility closet to the bottom of the stairs; Fiona was going to be back down for it any second. Then he packed up his books and left as quickly as possible before he could get dragged into any argument or talked into doing the plunging.

But what Fiona had said about Ian stuck with Lip all morning as he sat through his classes. It started to make a little more sense now, why Ian had been so reluctant to find Clayton, why he'd been so distant the past few weeks. It was stupid, but that was classic Ian.

By third period, Lip had resolved to cut fourth and have a talk with him, get this all resolved. When Lip made his way to Ian's history classroom, fake note from the principal's office at the ready, however, Ian wasn't in class.

Puzzled, Lip re-routed to the second floor boys' washroom for a smoke. He lit up, leaned against a window and was just considering whether Ian had skipped school entirely today when he spotted a familiar figure out behind the dumpsters. It was Ian, hanging out with Mandy Milkovich.

Lip lowered his Marlboro in offense. He and Ian had a long-standing practice that whenever one of them skipped class, they'd go spring the other and hang out together. Lip had never skipped class and not sprung Ian. But now here Ian was, cutting class and hanging out with someone else. Hanging out with that dumb Milkovich bitch. What the fuck?

Lip sucked on his cigarette with determination now as he watched them talking and laughing. What the hell could she possibly be saying that made Ian laugh so much? She wasn't that smart.

By the time he reached the filter, Lip had come up with a much better plan than just having a talk. He was really gonna do something for Ian, something special for his birthday that Saturday. Remind him that they were brothers and nothing had changed, that he could count on Lip. Remind him that he didn't need anybody else.

Saturday, Lip was up before anybody. He always hated waking early, but this morning he was excited, and that propelled him out of his bunk.

"Hey," he whispered, squatting down beside Ian's pillow, "Happy Birthday."

Ian didn't stir. He was always a heavy sleeper.

"Hey," Lip repeated, giving him a shove this time, "Wake up."

Ian scrunched up his face and partially opened one eye. "The fuck, Lip?"

"Happy Birthday, man."

Ian opened both eyes then just enough to give Lip a withering look. Then Ian rolled over and yanked the blankets up for protection from this lunacy.

"Come on," Lip coaxed, shoving him again, "Get up. I got a surprise."

Ian remained still a moment longer, as if holding out hope that Lip would give up and go away, but then Ian sighed and rolled back over. "What?" he asked.

Lip grinned and dropped the car keys onto the bed. "We're goin' for a ride."

"You didn't learn your lesson last time?"

"Come on," Lip laughed, turning over the key chain to reveal a small heart-shaped picture frame that featured a blurry photo of Veronica flashing her tits. "It's Kev's truck. I got permission."

Ian sat up slowly on his elbow, voice still croaky with sleep and asked, "Where we going?"

Lip patted his brother's chest and assured him, "It's a surprise. Get dressed."

And Ian did as he was told because Ian always did what Lip told him to do.

The first stop was the McDonald's drive-thru where Lip loaded them up with coffee and Egg McMuffins. He even sprang for extra hash browns and forced apple pie on Ian with the simple explanation, "It's your birthday—come on."

Ian ate obediently, still half-asleep as Lip guided the rumbling Dodge south and west until the buildings became less dense and they began passing blocks of empty storefronts and factories. Finally, they pulled into the lot of a shuttered shopping mall. The entrances to the parking lot had been roped off long ago, but most of the ropes had since deteriorated or been busted through. Lip navigated confidently, finally parking outside of a former Sears Auto Parts.

He shut off the engine and took his time eating his own breakfast while Ian waited patiently, questioning none of it.

Lip finished, wiped the grease from his hands then looked at Ian expectantly.

"What?" Ian asked.

"So, there's two pedals," Lip began, "The one on the right is the accelerator. The left is the brake."

Ian finally seemed to figure it out then. "You teaching me to drive?"

"Happy Birthday."

Ian smiled sort of awkwardly, as if he didn't know quite how to take this. He was probably embarrassed, overcome by this gesture.

Lip got embarrassed then too and glanced down, running his finger along the seam of the steering wheel cover as he struggled to articulate his reasoning.

"I mean, it's a big deal, right? And it…it kinda always… _hurt_ , you know? That Frank didn't teach me. That Kev had to? I dunno. It was nice of him. I'm glad he stepped in and did it, but, like…this is somethin' family should be there for. And I'm your brother. Okay? I wanna do this for you."

When Lip glanced back, though, Ian was smirking.

"So sentimental," Ian teased him.

Lip shook his head and sipped his coffee, swallowing away the moment.

"All right," he dictated, "Let's switch places. You'll learn better just divin' right in."

They ran around the truck, swapping places. Then Lip lit a cigarette and leaned back as Ian settled into the driver's seat. Lip was about to tell him how to start the engine, but Ian beat him to it, bringing the truck to life with a roar.

"Okay, okay, good," Lip said, "Now adjust your mirrors. Make sure you can see."

"Yeah," Ian murmured, tilting the rearview mirror, "Somebody short must've been driving last."

"Mmm."

"Really short."

"All right."

"Like a midget, or something. You see a phone book around here?"

"You wanna learn, or what?"

Ian snickered and pulled the lever into drive.

"Hey!" Lip jumped forward, "You gotta make sure your foot's on the brake first!"

"It is. Jesus."

"Oh," Lip sat back, his heart racing. "All right. Well, before you do anything else, before you put it into fucking Drive, you wanna check around you first."

"For what?"

"Other cars. Pedestrians. Stray puppies."

"We're in an empty parking lot."

"Will you just do it?"

Ian craned his head around theatrically, checking for imaginary traffic.

"All right," Lip continued, "So you've got it in Drive and you're clear to go. Put your foot on the accelerator, but do it gently."

Lip braced for a lurch forward but was pleasantly surprised when Ian eased the truck into a nice glide.

"Shit," Lip complimented him, "That's good. Just like that."

Ian gave him a patronizing smile and continued on, driving the truck in a gentle loop around the parking lot. The kid was a natural.

Lip let that go on for a while, allowing Ian to build his confidence. Then Lip directed him to try braking and practice coming to a stop.

Ian did that smoothly as well.

"Great," Lip said, "Okay. Let's try stopping at the end of the aisle and turning with your signal."

Ian guided the truck to the end of the aisle and paused for a right turn. Lip hardly had to instruct him at all. Then Ian did it again, this time executing a perfectly adequate left turn.

After a while, Lip was so impressed that he decided to coax Ian onto the access road that circled the mall, get him used to some non-parking lot driving.

"Pretend it's full of traffic, all right?" He directed, as Ian paused, checking both ways before turning onto the road.

"Good, good," Lip nodded, unable to stop himself from smiling. It had taken him several trips out with Kev to get this good. Ian had some true hidden talent. Or maybe Lip was that great of a teacher.

Ian circled the mall a few times before Lip switched things up.

"Let's try changing lanes," Lip said, "First thing you wanna do is check your mirror."

"Right," Ian nodded. He glanced in his side view mirror then turned around briefly before checking the mirror again and switching on his signal.

"Hey!" Lip gasped, "Don't do that! Never take your eyes off the road."

"I was checking my blind spot."

"Your what?"

"My blind spot. Shit, Lip, how have you not gotten killed yet?"

As Ian changed lanes expertly and snapped off his signal, Lip's mouth went desert dry.

"What's next?" Ian asked, driving steadily down the access road. "Parallel parking?"

"You already know how to drive."

Ian faked a laugh. "What?"

"Fucker. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I don't—" Ian glanced at him with an uncomfortable smile then gave up on lying. He pulled the truck back into the parking lot and put it into Park, pulling up the emergency brake for good measure.

Lip wasn't sure what this feeling was in his heart, but the though of drinking anymore coffee made him feel ill. He set it in the cup holder and asked, "Who taught you?"

Ian faked a laugh again and then bowed his head slightly.

"Mickey," he answered softly.

Of course it was one of those Milkoviches.

"When?" Lip asked, as if it mattered.

"Couple months ago. Before…you know, before all the shit with Kash."

Lip nodded again. He couldn't seem to stop nodding even though it felt idiotic. He should speak, but somehow he couldn't talk. All he could do was nod and swallow over this golf ball in his throat.

"Sorry," Ian offered, seeming alarmed by Lip's bobble head performance.

"Get out," Lip finally managed to say.

"Huh?"

"I'm driving home. You don't have a license."

A funny look passed over Ian's face and he sat forward to retrieve his wallet from his back pocket. Then he handed over a little card to Lip, grinning like he was the cleverest kid in Chicago.

Lip held the card gingerly as he took it in. "Mickey take care of this too?"

"Maybe."

"You're twenty-two now, huh?"

"Yes, officer."

"Dumb shit. You barely pass for fifteen."

"Nobody's ever questioned it."

Lip continued staring at his little brother's serious expression in the fake license photo, one more thing Ian had gone and done without him. Ian had combed his hair back for the picture. He did look a little older, which was oddly upsetting.

"Mickey did a shit job on that," Lip informed him, handing the card back. "Looks like a fake from a mile away."

Ian lingered over the license with the dopiest smile on his face before he slipped it back into his wallet.

"Move," Lip commanded.

Ian did as he was told, sliding out of the driver's seat and running around the front of the truck to trade places once more with Lip.

As he steered them away from the mall, Lip made one more stab at salvaging his perfect plan.

"DMV's open by now," he said, "Want me to take ya to get a legit one? We can swing back by the house first, get your birth certificate from Fiona."

"Nah, that's okay," Ian sipped his coffee, watching the bleak scenery, "I have plans."

"Right. Plans."

"I'll still be home for cake and shit," Ian hurried to add, "Just had somewhere I wanted to go today."

"Where?" Lip asked, forcing a pleasant tone into his voice, "I'll drop you off."

"Don't worry about it. I'll just take the bus."

"Ian, come on."

Ian hesitated then admitted, "Visiting hours at Cook County start at ten."

"Who do you know who's in the hospital?"

"Not the hospital. Juvie."

"Oh." Lip managed to keep his cool, but he felt like he'd been kneed in the groin.

Still, he drove on like it was no big deal. Because it wasn't. It was stupid. What difference did it make who taught Ian to drive? Who he ditched Lip on his birthday for? He'd still be home for cake, the fucker.

Traffic wasn't great as they got closer to the Loop, but neither of them talked. When they got to Cook County Juvenile Detention, Ian hopped down from the truck. He slammed the door behind him, but then came around to say something to Lip.

Lip put the window down, expecting an apology or maybe a bashful thank you for what Lip had tried to do for him. But all Ian said was, "Don't wait for me, okay? Mandy and me are going out afterwards."

Lip raised his eyebrows but stopped himself from whatever was about to come out of his mouth. Instead, he cocked his head and said, "Wasn't plannin' on it. Gotta get Kev's truck back anyway."

"Cool," Ian replied. He gave the cab door a douchey pat and sauntered off to the visitor's entrance like a Grade A dipshit.

After Ian had disappeared into the building, Lip remained in the parking lot. He crumpled up his coffee cup, wincing at the Styrofoam squeak, and tossed it out the window. He called Karen, but she didn't pick up so he left a pathetic message, loathing himself every second of it. Then somehow he wasn't driving home to Wallace Street. Rather, he headed back to the mall.

He idled outside the abandoned Sears, uncertain what to do. It was all so stupid. He shouldn't even care.

He started driving. Slow and easy at first, he copied the path Ian had driven earlier, gentle circles through the parking lot, pausing to check for imaginary traffic before turning. Then he sped up, rolled onto the access drive doing forty then fifty. Gritting his teeth, he pressed the pedal down as he looped the whole mall, the needle climbing to sixty, seventy, eighty. Some bit of his brain fantasized about hitting eighty-eight miles per hour, flashing into the future, away from all this bullshit.

The truck began to rattle and shake as he inched the needle over eighty. Fifteen years would be great, he figured. The Yards and the Gallaghers would be a distant memory only dusted off on holidays. He'd be running a lab, maybe, a team of underlings rushing to follow his orders. He'd have a big-ass house, some all-glass modern thing with a five-car garage for his Masserati and Tesla Roadster. Silicon Valley, maybe Seattle, he could dig it. Fuck it, maybe Hawaii. That sounded nice…

Lip whooped as he tore back into the parking lot, the lumbering truck skidding on the turn. He began swerving between the barricades and lampposts like he was skiing Slalom.

He continued to hoot in some dumb approximation of a cowboy as he steered through the blur. Ian could stay behind in the dust, kicking around the same shitty neighborhood, mooning over trashy idiots like Mickey Milkovich the rest of his life. If it made him so happy, he could have it. Everyone else could stay and rot there too. Except Karen, maybe. She'd love him forever if he got her out of here too, took her with him. She'd make such a good trophy wife. They'd know how to have fun together at IPO parties, making fun of all the nerds, she'd look fucking great in classy dress…The future, man. Light-years away from here. He just had to make it that far. Steer into the skid. Second star to the right. Slingshot around the sun. Where was his Mr. Fusion, huh? Where was his goddamn Mr. Fusion?

The low fuel light switched on, startling him. Lip screeched the truck to a halt.

He blinked a few times until he could see clearly again. He sat there a moment, trying to make sense of what he'd just done. There was no doing, though.

Instead he did his best to push it all from his mind. He took a deep breath, turned on the radio, and drove the truck back to Kev's, obeying every traffic signal and speed limit. If his knees were shaking a little when he climbed down from the truck and handed over the keys, Veronica didn't seem to notice.

That night he watched with disinterest as Ian opened his socks from the family and feigned delight. Lip was only half-listening as Fiona and the kids sang to him over eight-times-used nubs of birthday candles.

_You look like a mon-keeeeey_

_And you smell like one too!_

Lip was trying to grab back the pieces of his fantasy from earlier, but they were disintegrating like the threads of a dream. Lip's lab coat, Karen in that high-class dress, the gleaming modern house overlooking the ocean…

"You're certainly my best-behaved _brother_ ," Fiona remarked pointedly as she planted a kiss on Ian's temple and handed him the knife, "Thanks for givin' me the least amount of trouble."

Ian laughed and began cutting the cake. He passed the first piece to Debbie, then Fiona, then Carl. All the pieces were so messy and different-sized. Lip always cut his cakes to a perfect grid.

Lip was nudged from this thought as Ian set a wonky slice in front of him.

"What'd you wish for?" Lip asked.

When they were little kids, Ian had always told him. And when Ian would ask—he didn't always, but when he did—Lip always told him too. There had never been any secrets between them. This year suddenly there was nothing but.

Ian only smiled. He never answered that question again.

* * *

The baby is shrieking. He's been wailing for at least ten minutes straight, and between him and the five people arguing about how best to _stop_ the shrieking, Lip's forgotten what it feels like to hear his own brain. He fixes his grip tighter on the wheel, keeps his mouth shut, and tries to forget about everything but the tiny bit of road visible ahead.

"He needs a change. Shit. Told you we shoulda stopped at the last exit."

"He does not need change. We smell shit if it is shit."

"Maybe it _ain't_ shit."

"I think he's hungry."

"Impossible."

"No, he definitely needs a change. I think I can smell it."

"You know if you can smell it. If you do not know, it is not shit."

"We should pull over."

"What the fuck are we supposed to do with a baby on the side of the road in this snow? Change him on the hood?"

"He does not need change!"

"How long do you think 'til the next exit? You remember what the last sign said?"

"I can't read any of the signs in this snow."

"God, one of you please shut him up!"

"Maybe he's just tired of being in the car seat."

"What's your solution, dumbass? Toss him in the trunk?"

"Somebody should hold him."

"Ain't exactly any room to do that back here."

"Just get him to stop! I can't take it!"

"Oh, boo-hoo. What? Ten minutes? Try listenin' to that shit 24 hours a day."

"Bullshit you listen 24 hours a day. This is why you do not know answer here. 24 hours! Ha!"

"Oh, yeah, Mom of the year. Where's all your babysitters now, huh? Bet one of them could figure it out."

"This isn't solving the problem, guys. Clearly, he needs something."

"No. Fucking. Shit. That the higher learning skills they teach you at that fancy college? You're as bad as your boyfriend up there."

"Give him to me. I'll take him up here."

"No, he needs proper safety seat while vehicle is in motion."

"You see that on Oprah or some shit?"

"Oprah isn't even on anymore."

"Shut up, Mandy."

" _You_ shut up."

"This is all your fault, you know."

"Hey, I wasn't the one who decided to have a kid, okay?"

"I didn't fuckin'—"

"Mickey, stop. Give him to me. I said I'd take him up here."

"No! We must pull over if he leaves seat. Vehicle must not be in motion!"

"Somebody please shut him up! Shut up, Yevy. Please shut up. Aunt Mandy's ears can't take anymore, okay? Please?"

"Serves you right. We wouldn't be in this stupid car if it weren't for you."

"Is true. Was stupid secret plan."

"I never wanted us to be stuck in this fucking car! This wasn't _my_ idea!"

"Hear that, college girl? We're all fuckin' turnin' on you now."

"Hey, I was just trying to help. You guys certainly could've said no."

"What did that sign say? Anybody see that?"

"Shit, there was a sign?"

"Why are we stopping?"

"Lip, why are we stopping? This is dangerous. There's hardly any shoulder. What if a plow comes through? Lip?"

Gritting his teeth so tightly he's fairly certain they're going to crack into dust, Lip edges the car onto the shoulder. He brings it to a skidding halt, puts it into Park, and snaps on the hazards. Then he throws open his door and lunges out, no longer hearing any of them.

For one blissful second he pauses, taking in the serenity of the snow-dampened highway. His own brain and thoughts are still there after all, intact and quiet. He breathes.

He trudges around to the back passenger side, yanks open the door and unclips Yevgeny from his seat. The kid keeps wailing as Lip extricates him, wraps his blanket loosely, and takes him out into the cold. Lip tucks the baby against his chest and plants a kiss on top of his head without thinking about it, an instinctive gesture from years of too many baby siblings. He opens Ian's door and plops the kid into his arms.

"You're the babysitter, right? Figure out what's wrong and shut him up." Lip instructs him, sounding far more unhinged than he'd realized he was feeling.

"No!" Svetlana protests from where she is tightly wedged with everyone else, "He must be in safety seat!"

"The sign said the next exit is in six miles," Lip snaps, "We're not movin' anywhere until he shuts that kid up."

Lip slams the door closed, feeling great satisfaction at being able to use so much force.

Alone again in the peaceful stillness, he slips out a cigarette. He returns to the driver's side of the car, but doesn't get back in. Instead, he leans against his door and watches the mess of snowstorm traffic while he struggles to light up. He's not sure what he thinks he'll be able to do if some Mack truck comes careening toward their small, hardly visible sedan. There'd be no time to hop back in, start the car, and race out of the way. And Lip standing here isn't exactly going to protect the car—he'd be a bug stuck in the truck's grill in a quarter of a second. But there is nothing to be done. If their destiny is to end up a footnote on the WGN News at Nine tonight, so be it. That's about the most glory any of them are due anyway.

Fuck. He takes a drag, covering his face from the wind with his other hand, and thinks about how much easier it'd be if they did get smashed to bits tonight. He imagines death is like the sound of the snowfall.

He looks over as the back door opens and Amanda struggles out. She closes the door behind her and straightens up with a plastered-on smile. "Wanna share that with me?"

"You don't smoke."

"They don't know that."

"Ian does."

"He's pretty preoccupied at the moment."

Lip passes the cigarette to her and smiles as she takes a quick puff, clearly not inhaling it.

"Baby whisperer act isn't working this time, huh?" he comments.

"Babies are hard."

"I know."

Lip takes another drag and Amanda mimes the same.

"This was a really dumb idea," he tells her.

"The only way everybody's ever going to get all of this drama worked out is to be stuck in the same room together. That's practically what Thanksgiving is for. It's like a yearly cage match."

"You don't know anything about us. Maybe that crap works where you come from, but where we come from, nobody ever works out their drama. Everything just stays fucked forever. We like it like that."

"Do you?"

"And stop tryin' to make friends in there."

"Don't tell me what to do."

Lip checks his phone: a missed call from Fiona and another one from Debbie. They probably want him to pick up cranberry sauce or some shit.

He puts the phone back to sleep and says, "Don't worry. Won't ever let it happen again."

"Sure. I think you love telling people what to do almost as much as I do."

"Great minds."

"It's a sickness."

He raises his eyebrows. "You admitting you're not perfect?"

"Oh, no. Never."

They smile at each other, but are interrupted by someone tapping on the window from inside. Amanda opens the back door and leans in. Someone says something to her Lip can't make out and she turns and tells him, "Guess we're good to go."

He casts one last yearning look over the peaceful snow, stubs his cigarette out with his boot and gets back in.

"Put the heat back on," Mickey demands before Lip has even fully gotten back into his seat.

Lip holds his tongue, but re-starts the engine and turns up all the heat dials. He appraises the windshield for a moment, trying to decide if he's going to have to go back out and scrape all the accumulated snow off, but with the heat restored, the snow starts sliding off in chunks. He turns the wipers back on and decides that's good enough.

He begins to check for a safe opening in the traffic, but Ian says, "Hold up a minute, okay?"

Lip looks over at him, surprised to find that he's still holding Yevgeny. The kid is laying against Ian's chest, eyes at half-mast.

They're all being extra-still, Lip realizes. He sighs and sits back to wait as well.

As he watches Ian with the baby, though, Lip can't help but think about that night at the Milkovich house when Ian had said this kid was the closest he was ever going to get to being a dad.

Lip watches him holding the baby so tenderly, doing that calming stroking thing he was always so good at with Liam and Carl. The anger hits Lip anew, fresh as it had been that night. He is furious at the world for making Ian feel he is so poisonous and damaged, furious at Ian for believing that bullshit, but most of all furious at Mickey and Svetlana—at all of them, really, every last one of these fucking Milkoviches—for taking advantage of that. They're the ones who are poisonous. Nothing but trouble since he was fifteen, and Ian too dopily enamored of them all to even realize it.

They will use him until they break him, Lip thinks. Look at today: Ian can't even tell Mickey he doesn't want to see him, can't even tell Mandy to fuck off for engineering this stupidity, can't even tell Mickey's wife to handle her own goddamn kid. He just plays Nice Guy Ian like always, the good little employee, the good little soldier, the good little boy who will let anybody do whatever they want with him, play with the doll until they yank his limbs off then leave him discarded in the corner and skip away in search of a new toy.

Ian carefully returns Yevgeny to his car seat, pausing to make sure the baby is settled in and properly clipped before easing back into his own seat. Ian gives Lip a placid smile, and Lip manages to tamp down his ire, enough to focus, anyway.

He edges the BMW back onto the road and continues the death march.

They ride on for a while without talking, perhaps out of fear of jinxing Yevgeny's calm, perhaps because they're all sick of each other. Lip is grateful for it, though, and he settles into a comfortable rut of rumination, going over again and again everything that sucks and pisses him off.

Just when he's gotten nicely ensconced in his own head, Mandy pipes up.

"So, how come you can't drink anymore?"

"Well, points for directness, anyway," Amanda remarks.

Lip repositions his grip and asks, "You askin' me?"

"Who else would I be asking?"

He readjusts his grip on the wheel. "Maybe that accountant boyfriend of yours can put two and two together for you."

"So, what?" She sniffs, "You're just like your dad now?"

"Yeah, well, we can't all have a role model like Terry Milkovich, can we?"

"Hey, Svetlana," Ian says, turning around with sudden enthusiasm, "How do you like office work?"

She shrugs and replies, "Still dealing with stupid men, but there is less cum. Is not bad."

"Nah," Mickey says, "She's a natural. Takin' over the whole joint."

"What kind of business is it?" Amanda asks.

"Payday loan, title loan, discount merchandise, gold buys, and lottery sales," Mickey says.

"One stop shop for idiot poor," Svetlana explains.

"All completely above board," Mickey marvels, "Tito got a break for bringin' it to the neighborhood. Ain't even worth it to evade taxes—he's gettin' a sweeter deal from the fuckin' government."

Ian laughs and this seems to encourage Mickey who sits forward and tells him, "I been puttin' in a lotta hours over there, learnin' it all. Very interesting business."

"Legal loan sharking?" Lip comments, "Yeah, 'interesting' is a word for it."

"What about the stuff you were doing for your uncle?" Ian asks, ignoring Lip.

"Eh," Mickey brushes that away, "Fuck him. Tito's makin' money hand over fist at this joint."

"Who's Tito?" Amanda asks.

"Dolly's cousin," Svetlana replies.

"Who's Dolly?"

"Friend. Former colleague."

"Another whore," Lip translates.

"She is not whore anymore," Svetlana corrects him, "She is legitimate businesswoman."

Lip snorts.

"I didn't know you were working in the office too," Ian says to Mickey. There's a dreamy quality to his voice, like he's in awe of him, like Mickey has just casually admitted to having won several Olympic medals in his youth.

"He is surprisingly competent manager," Svetlana says, "This is why Tito wants to franchise."

"What?"

"Thinks we could do a real good business in the Yards," Mickey explains, "Think he's right. Puttin' it all together in one place like that? We could run all those other shops outta the neighborhood in a year, tops."

"Tito and Dolly do not trust anyone but us to handle new branch," Svetlana adds, obviously pleased with herself.

"Shit," Ian says breathily, "That's great."

Lip can hear it in his voice—a mixture of pride and regret. Mickey's done exactly what Ian said he could do without having Ian around weighing him down; he's gone out into the world and made himself a relative success. That can't feel good, even if Ian was right. That's got to feel like crap.

Lip clears his throat and says, "So, you've gone from exploiting illegal immigrant whores to exploiting the poor in general. Can't tell if that's a vertical or horizontal move."

Mickey ignores him and says to Ian, "I gotta talk to you, actually. We don't wanna just manage. Think we should buy in, and Tito's open to that, but we gotta sell the house then. Iggy and Joey are on board. I don't give a shit what any of the rest of them thinks, but you gotta be on board. It's your home too. We're not gonna do it if you don't think it's a good idea."

Lip is momentarily distracted by the information that the Milkoviches actually own their house. This does not jive with his conception of the world. Or his long held understanding of economic status in the neighborhood. How the fuck did Terry Milkovich ever qualify for a goddamn mortgage? And pay it off to the point that his kids could still make a profit selling that hovel? None of the Gallaghers has ever even been approved for a predatory-interest-rate credit card.

"You should burn the shithole down for the insurance money," Mandy says, "But I want a cut."

"Bitch, you think we got insurance on that dump?"

"We do have insurance on it," Ian says, "We got it through my work."

"Did I sign paperwork on that?"

"After you put me on the deed. Remember?"

"You're on the deed to that fuckin' house?" Lip cries.

Ian shoots him a look of irritation before continuing his conversation. "I think it's a good idea. I'll sign whatever you want."

"Jesus, Ian," Lip scoffs, "You should just get a recording of that to play. Save ya some time gettin' screwed over."

Ian's posture stiffens, even though he's still ignoring Lip.

"Nah, we're gonna talk through everything first," Mickey tells Ian, "We got a lotta shit to talk about tonight."

Ian falls quiet and turns back to facing forward in his seat, staring resolutely at the muddle of white outside the windshield.

"Boy, that's gonna be a great time for all," Lip mutters, "The Milkoviches sure know how to bring the holiday joy for everyone."

"Oh, like the Gallaghers are any better?" Mandy scoffs.

"Least we're not trash."

"Aw, fuck off," Mickey snarls, "You're as much trash as we are."

"Maybe," Lip concedes, "But none of _us_ ever went to school dirty."

"Pull over."

"Huh?" Lip glances over at his brother, uncertain whether Ian has actually said something.

"Pull over."

"You gonna be sick?"

"Pull over."

Lip swallows hard and guides the car carefully, so carefully, onto the shoulder, puts it in park and switches on the hazard lights.

"What's goin' on?" Mickey asks.

Lip doesn't answer him, just watches Ian warily. He doesn't look sick. He looks livid.

Lip raises his eyebrows in silent question.

"Get out of the car." Ian's voice is grave.

"What?"

"Out. Now."

"It's freez—"

"Get out of the car!"

Everybody seems to stiffen apprehensively at Ian's raised voice. Yevgeny starts to fuss and Mickey leans forward with a tentative hand held out and asks, "Ian?"

Then Ian has left the car, slammed the door behind him. Lip scrambles to undo his belt and follow.

It's bitter cold and wet, the snow falling on Lip's uncovered head as he stumbles through the drifts and makes his way to the other side of the car. Ian seems to be considering something, though—how close they are, if everyone inside the car can hear them, Lip guesses. This must be a correct guess because Ian inclines his head for Lip to follow and leads him a few yards down into the open land on the side of the highway. With the falling snow, Lip doubts anyone in the car can even see them anymore at this distance, let alone hear them.

He tucks his bare hands under his arms and confronts Ian. "The hell, man?"

"You gotta cut it out."

"Cut what out?"

"This. You. Stop being rude."

"Rude?" Lip barks out a laugh. "What are you? Miss Manners?"

"You're being an asshole, and that's my family, and you have to stop."

Lip's heart goes cold. The entirety of his blood stops flowing, just sitting in his veins coagulating. Then it surges back to life.

"Your _family_?! They're not your _family_. Jesus Christ, Ian, how fucked up are you? _We're_ your family. Me and Fiona and the kids. Not them. Fuck. How can you even think that?"

Ian stares at him a long moment before a bitter smile appears on his face. He bows his head and stalks a few paces away, as if talking himself out of something. But then he stops and turns around.

"Fuck you," Ian says.

Lip could clobber the idiot. His family. His _family_. The fucking Milkoviches.

Lip grits his teeth, trying to keep from speaking, but it comes out anyway.

"I tried to stop this shit," he says, "I knew this was gonna happen. I knew it. It always fuckin' happens. You always do this."

"What are you talking about?"

"This dumb shit you've done since you were a kid. You've never outgrown it. And it's really gettin' tiring tryin' to save you every time. And you never fuckin' learn."

Ian is just looking at him, like he has no idea what Lip is referring to. How is it possible Ian is still this unaware of his own faults? What the hell is he spending all that time talking about in therapy?

Lip sighs and buries a hand in his hair. "You always think everyone out there loves you and gives a crap about you. We're the only ones who love you, Ian, but it's like you fuckin' resent it. It's like…if you're not being used up and broken and…" His voice falters before he catches himself and continues on hoarsely, "You don't think it's love unless it looks like that. You think lettin' people ruin you is love. I don't know what to do anymore."

" _Ruin_ me?"

"What has any of those idiots in that car ever done but hurt you? And make things worse? Mandy's a goddamn psychopath…and Mickey? He fucked you up, Ian. You wouldn't be half as fucked up as you are right now if it weren't for him. Look at how you've been all day, how you've been for months! Years! Look at what he does to you! _How_ can you think that's good?"

"Shut up. You need to shut up, Lip."

"Why? 'Cause I'm right? You gotta face the truth sometime."

Ian doesn't reply immediately, but when he does, he speaks in a low, even tone as if it's taking all of his effort to contain his temper. "I'm married to him."

Lip rolls his eyes. "Another brilliant Ian Gallagher idea. Right up there with enlistin' as me and stealin' a goddamn helicopter. That guy's a fuck buddy that got out of hand. That's all he is."

"Stop."

But Lip goes on, fueled by his scorn now. "I mean, I tried to be nice about it. I tried to stay out of it. You're an adult; you can clean up your own mess. But you can't. You never can."

He pats his pockets, searching for his cigarettes as he continues, "I've been workin' overtime tryin' to get you out of this mess. And then—god, then I start second-guessin' myself, start thinkin' maybe I was wrong, maybe you actually need that jack-ass somehow. But, no way. Look at this shit. Look at you. I've tried everything I could think of to get you out of this mess, and you keep makin' it so much harder."

He stops speaking as he locates the pack, his agitation calming some just having his hands on them. He considers whether or not he should actually light one or if they're getting back in the car anytime soon. Then it occurs to him that Ian's not saying anything, and Lip takes his eyes off the Marlboros.

Ian is looking at him funny. Lip can almost make out the confusion being replaced by fresh anger, like every nerve ending in his face is shifting in formation ever so slightly. The flame in his narrowed eyes reminds Lip of that time in the bedroom when Ian almost strangled him over Kash. A voice whispers in his head: _Kyle Boozlee, Kyle Boozlee, Kyle Boozlee.._.

"What did you do?" Ian asks in that same low, controlled voice.

Lip scowls. "Whatever I could, all right? Tried to talk sense into you. That's impossible. Tried to talk sense into him. Might as well talk to fuckin' kindergartener with anger management issues. I even tried to be you and do it for you. Fuck of a lot of good that did."

"What do you mean?"

Lip waves this off. "Sent him some bullshit text from your phone. No fuckin' reaction. Total waste of time."

Now Ian is right in Lip's face. "What the fuck are you doing,?" Ian screams, "What the fuck is wrong with you?!"

Lip attempts to push Ian back a step, but the shove doesn't budge him. So Lip pops one of the cigarettes into his mouth casually, trying to maintain as much aloof dignity as he can with Ian towering over him like this.

"Why does that guy make you so stupid?" Lip asks, patting his pockets for his lighter, "I swear to god your IQ drops a point every minute you spend with him. Maybe you _should_ run away to where-the-fuck-ever downstate. Preserve what's left of your sense."

"Shut up, Lip."

"No. I'm done shutting up."

"You've never, ever shut up. Not once in your life."

"Cause I give a fuck, okay? Sorry that I care. Believe me, I wish I didn't."

"You don't give a fuck about anybody but yourself. You're so full of shit."

"I don't give a fuck? Christ, you have any idea how much it kills me to see someone I love gettin' used like this? You think I _like_ seeing that ape make you miserable? You think I'm gonna just watch you go to pieces and not try to help?"

"I don't need anymore help!" Ian screams, slapping the package of cigarettes from Lip's hands, sending them flying out across the snow, "Fuck help! Fuck all of you! I got help coming out of my ears!"

Shocked, Lip shoves Ian again, with both hands this time, "Back the hell off."

Ian shoves him back, the force causing Lip to drop the cigarette from his mouth.

Lip attempts to push him back, but Ian shoves him again and this time Lip loses traction on the snow and slips, falling back hard on his ass. Before he can get a grip to sit up, though, Ian is down on top of him, pinning his knees against Lip's arms.

"And you don't even really wanna help me—you just want to keep pointing out all the things I do wrong so you feel better about your own shitty life," Ian says, all the control gone from his voice, little bits of spittle flying, "Nobody wants your help, Lip. When the hell are you gonna use that big, fat brain of yours and realize it? All anybody wants is for you to get your shit together, and get the hell out of here. Nothing else you do helps anyone."

Lip struggles to get his arms loose, but Ian's knees might as well be iron manacles. It hurts too, that weight digging into him.

"It doesn't take a genius to fix shit at the house, okay?" Ian snarls, "It doesn't take a genius to help Carl with his homework. It doesn't take a genius to tell me I've got fucking problems."

Lip scowls and tries not to look at Ian as he's saying this, tries not to meet the hate in his eyes. Instead Lip focuses on trying to wriggle himself loose, his feet sliding on the ground as he attempts to make Ian lose his balance.

Ian pounds his fist into the snow, just inches from Lip's head and growls, "The only thing being a genius is good for is you getting some hotshot job so Fiona can finally be off the hook for everything. The only thing that makes you more special that the rest of us is that you've actually got that chance."

Lip finds some purchase with his right foot and he thrusts his hips, managing to almost knock Ian off. Ian bears down on him with renewed force, though, his face contorted with rage.

"But you never stop getting chances!" Ian shouts, "And wasting them! You don't even try. All you wanna do is drink it all away and tell us how much the rest of us suck. It's not fair! It's not fucking fair! You've got everything! You always got everything. And you don't even care! The only thing you care about is making sure nobody else gets anything at all."

This last accusation seems to have sapped Ian's energy. He's panting, and he pauses to wipe his arm across his mouth.

Lip takes the opening and bucks Ian off. They both slide frantically, Lip scrambling to claw himself away as fast as possible, Ian flailing to regain his footing.

As Lip crawls on his hands and knees through the snow, arms throbbing, clothes soaked through, Ian's words start to sink in. It's more than his arms that are aching as Lip climbs to his feet. Ian is standing closer to him than Lip realized, which makes him nervous.

Hands shaking, Lip pats the pockets of his coat, searching for his cigarettes before he remembers he doesn't have them anymore. There is no alcohol or nicotine to give him even that tiny bit of reassurance. Panic is mounting in his chest as Lip puts on his last bit of bravado and sneers, "The only thing that makes you feel special is having some asshole tell you you're the greatest 'cause you sucked his cock. Too bad idiot boys with warm mouths are a dime a dozen. But, hey—guess that's love, right?"

Ian's punch seems to come from nowhere and from every direction simultaneously.

Lip stumbles, his head erupting in pain. Dazed, he takes a swing at one of the two Ians he sees in front of him. He connects with neither. He swings again, and this time Ian catches his wrist. Lip uses his left hand to grab Ian's free arm and keep him from getting another hit in. Now they're locked into a scuffle, each struggling to break a hand loose but not to let the other brother get free.

Ian has the advantage of being taller and not swimming through dizziness and pain, but Lip is not letting go, not giving up. Pieces of stars are flitting in front of his eyes, but he just grunts and struggles harder.

"You piece of shit," Ian taunts hoarsely, "You think you know what love is? Think you're the expert on that, too? What about Karen, huh? She never loved you, you idiot. Jesus Christ, you're still mooning over a fucking vegetable who never gave a shit about you. She fucked everybody—she fucked _Frank_. You think you meant anything to her? Her getting hit by that car was the best fucking thing that ever happened to you, but you're still acting like you lost the love of your life. And you think you know better than me about who's _good_ for me?!"

Lip wrests his right arm free with an inarticulate wail of rage and catches Ian in the jaw with a solid hook.

Ian drops his hold on Lip's other wrist and stumbles backwards in shock. He touches his jaw briefly then launches at Lip.

Things become a blur.

Somehow they're entangled again, on the ground now, Ian on top then Lip then Ian again then on their sides face to face, grabbing and clawing and kicking, sputtering out nonsensical bits of insult.

"…facist cunt…"

"…bullshit pussy…"

"…dickwad piece of asshole…"

"…fuckshit…"

Lip spits blood at Ian's face, and Ian cracks Lip's skull against the ground.

They're half standing again, still entwined and batting at each other. Lip dives forward, his head connecting with Ian's gut and he knocks him backwards and onto the ground again.

Lip dives down after him but slips on the snow and ends up skidding face-first onto the ground beside him. The pain radiates through every nerve in his body.

Ian flips Lip onto his back and Lip gasps for air as Ian pins him once more and takes the opportunity to continue lecturing him. Lip doesn't remember the last time Ian had so much to say. He is possessed.

"You think Mandy's a psychopath? What did she ever do but help your lazy ass? You wouldn't even be at that school—you wouldn't be in fucking college, be a fucking high school graduate, if it wasn't for her. What did she ever do to you?"

Lip chokes as he tries to cough but can't get enough air in with Ian sitting on his chest. He wheezes in a pitifully thin strand of air and stares up at his brother, confounded that he can still be this naïve, still so doggedly believe the best in everybody who's not a Gallagher.

"What did she do?" Lip whispers, "Jesus, Ian, you don't have a clue. You don't have any idea what she's capable of."

Ian's eyes narrow and he pushes his weight forward, pinning Lip tighter. Ian is grinning now as Lip struggles to get any air at all. Ian leans over him and hocks a loogie right onto Lip's nose.

Lip squeezes his eyes shut as it trails down the side of his nose toward his eye socket.

"I can't breathe," Lip squeaks, quite certain Ian's knees are going to pierce right through the lungs and come out the other side.

Ian holds him for a few more seconds then relents and climbs off him.

Lip moves onto his elbow and takes in several enormous breathes. He wipes the loogie from his face and tries to determine whether or not he's going to vomit.

"What'd she do that was so bad?" Ian asks in a mocking tone, using a handful of snow to soothe his right hand, "Lemme guess…she did something nice for you. Or, oh, she said you were great, told you she cared about you, so then you couldn't let yourself like her anymore. That it?"

Lip closes his eyes, head swimming, but when he does he sees the bloody, cracked screen of that cell phone, sees Karen's empty eyes looking back at him as he tells her she was fearless.

"Come on, Lip!" Ian chides, "You're the genius and I'm the dummy. Better teach me so I know. Can't let the crazy dummy make up his own mind about anyone. Tell me what Mandy did that was _so horrible_."

Lip is on top of Ian, uncertain how he got there, uncertain about anything except the need to shut him up and make it all go away. Lip's punches hit the snow several times but he also manages to connect with Ian a few times as well. Then they're locked again, tearing at each other and rolling, one on top then the other, the sky then the snow, the sky then the snow.

Woozy and flailing, trying to get a hit in, Lip flashes back to another time when he and Ian were fighting in the snow, in the back yard when they were little. Monica had come back and brought with her a stuffed animal, some deranged puppy-like creature. It had no tag, no indication where it had come from, and she gave it to Ian because he was the youngest. But Lip knew that wasn't true; she gave it to Ian because she liked him best. Lip was too old for a stuffed animal (so was Ian, for that matter), but Lip wanted that puppy desperately. Ian held tight to it, though, his proof that their mother loved him.

Overcome with desire for it, Lip pushed Ian off the back steps and into the snow, tried to snatch it from him. But Ian fought back, fending Lip off with one arm while he maintained a death grip on the stuffed puppy with the other.

They toppled down, Lip digging his knees into his brother, trying to tear the toy out of his grip. But Ian held on like a demon.

Lip made one more attempt to wrest the stuffed animal out of Ian's grip but was thwarted when Ian grabbed onto Lip's arm and bit him. Lip cried out as Ian's little teeth sunk down through Lip's sweater and into the flesh of his forearm.

Enraged, Lip struck back blindly, hitting hitting hitting.

Suddenly, there was blood in the snow.

Lip watched dumbfounded as the blood seeped out of Ian's nose, connected the dots of his freckles, turned his chin and cheeks into a blooming ink stain of red.

Ian shrieked as he saw the blood then began to whimper, letting go of the stuffed puppy at last. It plopped limp onto the pink snow, no longer wanted by anyone.

Then Fiona was pulling Lip off of Ian and shouting.

" _What is wrong with you? You're a big boy, Lip! What is wrong with you? Grow up!_ "

And here now, in the snow again, on the side of the highway outside Racine, Lip hears Fiona as if she's right beside him, sees Ian tiny again, bloody and scared.

Lip lets go of Ian.

Ian flips Lip onto his back again and knocks him so hard in the head that it takes Lip a few seconds to remember where his arms are and how to use them. He finds both arms free as Ian is busy lifting Lip's head by his hair, readying him for a truly direct hit. Lip doesn't try to get a hit in, though. Instead he cages his arms over his face to protect himself as Ian lays into pummeling him.

It's not clear if Lip closes his eyes on purpose or if that just happens or if he's somehow been struck blind. He rolls around in the dark, riding the deluge of pain.

He almost gets used to the rhythm of the incoming hits. Ian whales on him like Lip is a punching bag, even, steady shots one after the other. Lip rocks back and forth, back and forth.

But now Ian is shouting, furious, "Why aren't you hitting me back?! Hit me back!"

"I'm not gonna hit you," Lip pants, still trying to ward off the unending assault of Ian's fists, "I'm not gonna fight you anymore."

"Hit me, you coward! You fucking piece of shit! Hit me!"

"No," Lip whispers, his tongue feeling eight times the proper size, "I don't wanna hurt you."

"Since _when_?!" Ian screams and lays in with another round on the bag.

Lip slips away for a second. Where he goes, he's not sure, but it's peaceful and dark. Maybe it's the basement. Maybe little Ian is down here hiding. Or maybe he's upstairs in the dryer. Maybe no one is here. Maybe Lip's alone.

He comes to, shocked at the cold, and watches in confusion as Mickey pulls Ian off of him.

"Calm down!" Mickey is shouting, "Calm the fuck down!"

"Don't tell me to calm down," Ian snarls, breaking loose from Mickey's grip and lunging back toward Lip.

"Cut it out," Mickey commands, catching Ian's arm again and yanking him back, "You're gonna kill him, Ian."

Reluctantly, Ian stops. He stands there panting and mutters, "I'm sick of him saying all that shit about you."

"I don't fuckin' care what he says about me," Mickey tells him, "He don't matter. You okay? He hurt you?"

Ian snorts.

Mickey looks at him warily, but Ian remains defiant. Temporarily satisfied, Mickey turns his attention to Lip. He stalks over to him and squats down.

"Hey," Mickey says, wiggling his fingers in front of Lip's eyes, "You with us?"

"Uh…yeah," Lip manages, surprised to find he can put words together. He drags himself up to a sit, putting a hand to the ground to steady his roiling head. There's blood streaming into his eye from somewhere, but he can't think of what to do about that.

Mickey leans in and Lip peers back through raspberry-tinged vision.

"The fuck you doin' fightin' with him?" Mickey asks in a low voice, far too similar to the one Ian was using a bit ago.

Lip can't manage an answer. He puts a hand to his head now, finally figures out how to wipe some of the blood away from his eyes.

"You're his goddamn brother," Mickey scolds him, "You're supposed to look out for him, not make everything worse."

"I know," Lip whispers.

"And where the hell do you get off hittin' a guy like that anyway?" Mickey continues, voice rising, "You know damn well that's not good."

"I know," Lip repeats, "I know."

"A guy like what?" Ian asks.

Mickey turns around and sighs, "Ian…"

"Just say it, Mickey. I'm a delicate goddamn flower with a broken brain—that what you mean?"

"Come on. You read all the same shit I did. Don't play dumb."

"I'm not your kid," Ian says, "I can do whatever I want with my fucked-up head. If I feel like fucking it up some more, if I feel like kicking his ass is exactly what I need to do, then I can fucking do it."

"Fuck, Ian—I'm tryin' to help you! I'm tryin' to protect you from this asshole. Look at what he does to you! That's not—"

Mickey stops mid-sentence because Ian is staring at him, wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

Then Ian shakes his head slowly.

"You're exactly like him," Ian says, "You both think you know everything. You both think I'm just some fragile idiot who can't figure out his own fucking life. You're both just bossy, condescending, short little assho—oh, _fuck._ "

Ian puts a hand to his head, clearly having just realized something.

"What?" Mickey asks.

" _Fuck_."

"What?"

"I married my fucking _brother_!" Ian screams, "Fuck _me_! _Fuck_!"

Lip and Mickey watch bewildered as Ian waves his hands in the air and groans like a Sisyphus who's once more watched his boulder roll all the way down the mountain.

Mickey reaches out for him but Ian bats him off without even looking in his direction. He trudges back up toward the road, muttering to himself as he climbs over every drift. He passes the car, though, apparently opting to walk the rest of the way back to Chicago.

As Ian stomps off down the side of the highway, Mickey bends down and begins plucking Lip's scattered cigarettes out of the snow, testing to see if any of them are still dry and usable.

"Hey," Lip grumbles, "Those are mine."

Mickey offers him one.

Lip accepts it. The pain is sharp in his chest as he reaches for his lighter with his good hand.

Mickey bends down for a light and Lip obliges before he lights his own and asks, "You're not gonna go after him?"

"Right now? When he's fired up like that? I know better than that, man. Besides, where's he gonna go? We can see him for at least a mile up."

"He didn't think this through."

"He never does."

Lip wipes some blood from the corner of his mouth. He's gotten numb to the cold and most of the pain at this point, though his head still feels swimmy.

He takes a drag before he asks, "How do you put up with this shit?"

Mickey shrugs. "I love him."

The boldness of that statement catches Lip off guard.

"Eh, I ain't perfect either," Mickey adds, picking a bit of tobacco leaf off his tongue, "He puts up with me."

"Guess that's about as good as it gets," Lip replies and busies himself trying to keep the blood from dripping down his temple again. Every time he wipes it away, more appears.

"Nah, it gets better," Mickey says, watching Ian make his slow march, "It's been a lot better. It'll _be_ a lot better again. Just gotta get there."

"You really think you will?"

Mickey nods, still watching Ian. But then he turns back and seems a bit embarrassed at his optimistic certainty. "I got a long way to go before I roll over and give up. Anything worth havin' is worth tryin' for, right?"

Lip exhales through his nose and winces at how much this stings. "I can't imagine anything worth this shit."

To Lip's confusion, Mickey gives him a look that reads very much like pity.

Their attention turns to the car as one of the back doors slams open and Amanda tumbles free of the other sardines. She goes around and lets herself into the driver's seat. The engine starts back up.

Then, ever so slowly, the car begins to ease forward.

Lip and Mickey tilt their heads in confusion as the car moves away from them. Continuing at a snail's pace, Amanda inches along the shoulder. Lip wonders why she doesn't pick up speed and merge back onto the highway if they've all just decided to take off, but then he understands that she's following Ian, keeping a few deferential yards behind his slow, petulant trudge.

Mickey barks out a laugh as the car steadily moves further away from them, and he remarks, "Well, we know where _we_ stand."

The BMW continues to shadow Ian. Finally, he notices them and lifts his head, though he doesn't stop walking.

The windows go down and Lip can just make out the feminine pitch of all their voices calling out. He can't decipher their exact words, but he has an idea of what they're saying to Ian.

Watching Amanda and Mandy and Svetlana pleading with Ian through the car windows, begging him to get back in, Lip realizes something. At home, in the Gallagher family, Ian is the same as he ever was: quiet, reliable, unremarkable Ian. In this family, though, this raggedy tangle of foreign interlopers, Ian is everybody's favorite. Ian is their hero.

Maybe it's time to let him have that.

* * *

Amanda insists on driving once they've retrieved all three boys and also insists that they stop at the first place they come to, which turns out to be a doughnut shop. Mickey and Svetlana, with Yevgeny in tow, head up to the counter to order while Ian hangs back uncomfortably by himself.

Amanda helps Lip into a booth, ignoring his pitiable attempts to push her off, and immediately sets to work.

"Get some water," she instructs Mandy and grabs a stack of napkins out of the dispenser.

Lip pulls air sharply through his teeth as Amanda manhandles him out of his coat.

"Hey," he protests as she yanks up his sweater and shirt and inspects his chest, poking at his ribs.

"Ow! Jesus!" He hisses as she pokes the same spot several times, "You're not a doctor yet."

"Lift your arms," she commands.

Gingerly, he does what he is told. It hurts like hell.

She continues to poke at his rib and then reaches a determination. "I don't think it's broken, but you're going to have a heck of a bruise."

Mandy comes over to the booth, clutching a big cup of water between her hands.

"Thanks," Amanda says, with some distraction, "You can just set that there."

Mandy puts down the cup, swipes one of the napkins from Amanda, dips it in the water and reaches toward the cut on Lip's scalp.

"Hey," Amanda stops her, "What do you think you're doing going right for the wound like that?"

"Uh, cleaning him up."

"That's not sterile. You'll give him an infection."

Mandy puts a hand on her hip. "There some sterile surgical equipment in this doughnut shop I didn't notice?"

Amanda too puts a hand on her hip. "I have a complete first aid kit in the trunk."

Lip can't help but smile just a tiny bit as his two former girlfriends vie to be in charge of babying him. Just then, though, Mandy's phone rings and she drops the damp napkin onto the table in favor of pulling her phone out.

"It's Mike!" She whispers, sounding not remotely like any Mandy Lip ever knew. She flashes them all a beatific grin as she ducks to the other side of the shop to answer her boyfriend's call.

Amanda watches her go and then turns back to Lip. "Sorry, cowboy."

"Thought this was about to become a fantasy I didn't know I had."

"Ugh. You wish." Amanda turns and tosses the car keys to a startled Ian who nevertheless does catch them. "Go get the first aid kit out of the trunk."

He nods and begins to follow her orders, but as he reaches the door, she calls out.

"Ian? Don't drive off and leave us stranded here, okay?"

He makes a face and heads out.

"What on Earth were you guys fighting about?" Amanda asks, turning back to Lip with a gossipy smile.

"Doesn't matter."

"Hmm," Amanda comments without commenting. "See if you can uncurl your fist."

"Ah! Ah! Ah!" Lip gasps as he tries to do so.

She frowns and grabs his hand, causing him to whimper.

"Jesus Christ!" He yells as she forces his hand open. The other patrons all turn to look at them.

"Good," Amanda says, giving his hand back to him, "Nothing's broken."

He pulls his hand protectively to his chest and does the best he can to back away from her while trapped in the booth. Amanda rolls her eyes.

Mickey and Svetlana come over with a box of doughnuts. Svetlana slides into the booth across from Lip and begins tearing pieces off a cider doughnut and feeding them to Yevgeny.

"Want one?" Mickey asks Lip.

"No," Lip replies though he can't quite hide his bemusement that Mickey actually offered.

"You'd probably puke it up right now, anyway," Amanda says.

Mickey glances over at Mandy, still smiling into her phone as she talks in the corner.

"I never seen her like this," he remarks.

"That wasn't how she was when she was dating Lip?" Amanda asks with false innocence.

"You kiddin'? Asshole was a shit boyfriend."

"I know," Amanda agrees.

"You know how many times she asked me to kick his ass for her? He wouldn't be sittin' here now if she hadn't kept changin' her damn mind."

"There he is," Svetlana says to Mickey, nodding at the door as Ian returns.

Ian doesn't look at Lip as he plops the first aid kit on the table and takes a few steps back.

"Will you eat somethin'?" Mickey asks him, though it's more of an irritated command than a question.

Ian takes a chocolate cake doughnut. He doesn't retreat as he eats it, but he keeps his head bowed, apart from them all the same.

Amanda sets to work on Lip's wounds, and Mickey watches with amused interest, probably taking pleasure in seeing Lip wince and attempt not to cry out like a bitch.

"You're already getting a black eye," Amanda notes as she dabs away blood and dirt from his temple with a damp napkin before moving in with the alcohol wipes and gauze. "How did he cut your head, though? Did he hit you with a rock?"

"Wedding ring," Mickey informs her casually, "Solid gold. Like havin' one brass knuckle."

"Handy," Amanda replies.

"Damn right."

Yevgeny starts wailing then and Svetlana lifts him for a sniff. "He needs change," she confirms.

"I got it," Mickey says, climbing out of the booth. He accepts the baby with a gentleness Lip as only seen him reserve for Ian, "Come on, Piglet."

He takes the baby and the diaper bag into the single occupancy bathroom, leaving the rest of them behind in silence, watching Amanda work.

After a minute, though, Svetlana looks over to Ian and pats the empty seat beside her. "You sit."

Surprisingly, Ian does, and, even more surprisingly, he doesn't lower his eyes. He and Lip stare each other down while Amanda flutters between them, occasionally obscuring Lip's view. Each time she moves out of his sightline, Ian is still there, looking straight at him. There doesn't seem to be any apology coming, any kind of remorse, even a friendly acknowledgement of anything that just happened. Ian is merely observing him like he would a museum display.

The things Ian said out there in the snow are coming back now to Lip, and he finds he can't look at Ian anymore. Instead Lip focuses on the table, the pile of Band-Aid wrappers and wet napkins. He feels akin to that soggy garbage. He's failed on every count imaginable, even the ones he didn't know existed. Ian hates him. Nobody can stand him. He is everything Ian said.

He thinks about last night, passed out drunk for hours on the floor with Frank. Nobody tried to wake Lip up, move him to the couch at least. And why should they? He's nothing but a joke to them that's long past being funny.

He sits passively as Amanda finishes on his injuries, cleans up Ian's minor injuries while lecturing him to get a cup of ice for his hands, then packs everything back into the first aid box. Lip's not even sure he could move if he wanted to—his will is gone. He says nothing as Mickey returns and they all negotiate who's going to do the rest of the driving, discuss how much further they've got left, how much time that'll be with the snow and the accidents. It all just becomes a jumble of distant voices. His whole life he's been a fool.

"Lip?"

Lip looks up and realizes they're all on the other side of the shop, heading out the door. He's still sitting in the booth and Mandy is looking down at him.

"You okay?" She asks.

He gazes at her a long time, only now registering that she's changed her hair. It's different than it used to be, seems fringier or shorter or something.

"Lip?"

"How did you do it?" He asks her.

"What?"

"How'd you become a different person?"

She presses her lips together, the way she always did when she wasn't sure whether she should say something. Blunt as she was, she was always so afraid of pissing him off. He doesn't like that she felt that way around him. He sure wasn't worth it.

She pushes a chunk of hair behind her ear and explains, "I stopped believing what everybody back home used to say about me."

It sounds so deceptively simple. Then he asks, "What if everybody back home was right, though?"

Somehow she seems to understand that he's not talking about her. She sneers and says, "Then fuck 'em. It's your life."

Mandy turns to leave, and Lip drags himself painfully from the booth. He follows her mechanically, though he still feels deflated and half-asleep.

The cold outside shocks his brain back to life a bit. As they reach the car, ready to rejoin the rest of their party, Lip reaches out and tries to take Mandy's hand. She jerks it away and stops to stare at him.

As she curls his lip at him in disdain, a strange thought flits through his head: he used to wish that she wasn't so beautiful so it'd be easier to hate her. But he pushes the memory away.

"Hey," he begins and pauses as he realizes he doesn't know what he wants to say.

"What?"

Mickey taps on the window from inside the driver's seat and makes a motion to hurry up. Mandy scowls as Lip turns back to her.

"I'm glad you're so happy now," he mumbles. That isn't right, but it's close enough.

Her expression doesn't change, and he falters.

"You are happy, right?"

She hesitates, like she suspects this is a trap. But then she admits, "Most of the time. I guess."

"Well…good."

Mandy gives him an odd sort of smile that might be compassion or might just be an attempt to get away from him. She goes around the other side of the car, climbs in, and doesn't look back.

Lip remains in the parking lot, staring at them all packed into the BMW. He doesn't belong in there with them, but he doesn't belong out her either. He doesn't belong anywhere.

But Amanda gets out of the car and pushes Lip inside as she tells him, "You have to go in first so I can sit on you."

At this point he'll take whatever purpose he can get.

* * *

The highway is closed off near the state border and through the bright red light of the flares and temporarily erected floodlights, they are directed to a convoluted detour. They get lost twice, once in the back roads around Bristol then again near Waukegan. There is endless rerouting and bickering and they have to stop multiple times for the baby.

Through all of it, Lip says nothing. It feels like he is watching a show play out on a fuzzy TV station and his mind keeps wandering off from the plot.

He thinks about all the times in the Cavalier when Monica and Frank fought like cats and Lip would pretend he was asleep. He can still hear their voices sometimes when he closes his eyes, still feel the smooth cold of the window glass against his cheek, still hear Fiona soothing Ian beside him.

Then he thinks about Karen and the night they sat under the el tracks, laughing at the rebellious joy of being alive with every sparking, deafening train that passed. They got tipsy on beer, and Lip had hoped to get laid, but instead Karen grew drowsy, fell asleep against his chest, and that was even better. He'd felt strong and important that she could be safe enough with him to be so vulnerable; he'd felt like a man and not a kid and thought that this was what life was always going to be.

He thinks about Liam last year in the dorm room, asleep in Lip's bed, thumb in his mouth. Lip had barely slept those nights, unable to take his eyes off his brother, unwilling to stop watching for any hint of trouble or damage. The only time he could sleep was when Amanda stayed over with them. He doesn't know why he trusted her, just that he did. Maybe he'd just been too tired not to.

He is tired now too as he thinks about school, the mess he's made of it all, and the pit he's dug for himself that he's never going to get out of.

He thinks about how he's just as trapped as Fiona, a worse fate even than being Frank because it's so unexpected. He never thought he'd be her. He always thought he was smarter and could avoid it. But Fiona's actually better off than him because she was never dumb enough to dream. And at least everybody loves her. She'll always have that over him too.

He listens to Amanda and Mandy talking again, having found some sort of neutral ground to discuss. He thinks about Mandy and her new life—he never expected that either, had just assumed she was a goner like everyone else. He thinks about how even fucking Mickey is moving upward, how everybody in this car is cheering for him.

Lip closes his eyes and thinks about Debbie and Carl and Liam and how Lip has no ability to stop or stave off any of the terrible things that are going to happen to them. He thinks about how nobody wants him to anyway.

He thinks about the future ahead, bleak interchangeable days of getting drunk and pissing the bed, losing job after job until he can't get any more of them, bragging to anyone who will listen about how once upon a time people used to say he was a genius, how he even got a scholarship to college, but it wasn't for him. He thinks about how he'll grow stooped and grizzled, how he'll shuffle around the streets filthy and stinking and talking to himself, all the neighborhood kids laughing at him like they've always done with Frank. Someday no one will believe he was ever supposed to be anything better.

He thinks about how he'll stop coming home because it'll hurt too much to remember everything he used to think he had. He thinks about how no one will miss him.

He doesn't think about Ian, though; he doesn't. He doesn't think about curling together like puppies in the back of the Cavalier, how many nights they shared a bunk and Lip thought he was Ian's protector, thought Ian could sleep because he felt safe beside him. Lip doesn't think about how he was only ever a seat warmer, holding the spot until Ian found all the people he really loved. Lip does not think about that. He can't.

Lip leans his head against the window and the cold glass is soothing on his throbbing jaw. He watches the streetlights whip by, counting off the seconds of their lives passing into nothing, and he thinks about how much easier it would be if he could still pretend to be asleep.


	11. The Shortest Distance Between Two Points

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tremendous thank you to everyone who's stuck with this story, read all these ridiculous words, and maybe even left a kudo or a comment (even multiple ones!), or sent a bit of encouragement. I am really so grateful for you all.
> 
> Maybe it's cheesy to dedicate a fanfic to somebody, but tonight is a night for cheesiness, it seems, to I dedicate this work to my own twin, Kat. Thank you for being so you and always helping me be me. Love you, twin.

It's dark by the time they finally see the skyline of Chicago. Lip's eye is mostly swollen shut by that point, but he struggles to catch sight of it, confirmation that this trip will someday end.

As they continue south and everything grows grubbier and more familiar, Lip listens to them talk about how hungry they are, what a relief it'll be to get out of this car. They all sound so normal, like real people with real lives.

They reach Wallace at last and Lip watches passively as they unload, stretch and groan. Somebody hands him Yevgeny, and Lip holds him, focusing on the back of the kid's round head, the soft swirl of baby hair. Yevgeny turns to look at him, and Lip half-smiles, the best he can manage. Then Svetlana grabs him back, leaving Lip empty-handed once again.

Lip follows along with the herd as they tramp into the house, throwing down coats and hats and diaper bags from the entry to the living room.

"Where have you been?" Debbie cries from somewhere, and Fiona says, "I've been tryin' to call you for hours."

But all Lip can register is the dining room table full of food and Gallaghers…Frank and Monica seated among them.

"What the fuck?" Mickey asks as he and Ian freeze beside Lip, staring at this tableau of horror.

"If either of you assholes would ever pick up your phones—" Fiona is saying, but Lip isn't listening.

He turns around, walks right back out the way he came.

Outside, he sits on the steps and puts his head in his hands. He needs a cigarette, but he can't manage the act of getting one out. The cold around him is comforting, though, as he listens to the sound of his own breath.

And now Ian is pounding down the steps with Mickey at his heels.

"I can't do this," Ian says as they reach the gate and Mickey pulls him to a stop, "I can't handle this today. I can't."

"Okay."

"I can't see her. I can't do it. I can't. I can't."

"Okay. You don't have to. We can go."

Ian nods shakily and moves to leave, but Mickey continues to hold him in place. Ian looks down at him, confused.

"I just think…" Mickey bites his lip and hesitates, "I mean, you're gonna have to sometime."

"Mick…"

"You don't have to today. Not tonight. I'm sure as fuck not gonna make you. But, it's gonna happen at some point, right? Maybe it's better with everyone here is all I'm sayin'. Everybody's got your back."

Ian doesn't say anything, but he isn't pulling away anymore either. Lip observes with curiosity the look that is passing between them. He recognizes some of it—there's trust there. Ian used to look to Lip with that same kind of trust, back when they were kids and Ian still believed that Lip knew everything. But there's something else in that look too, something Lip can't identify so easily.

"And stop sayin' you can't," Mickey tells Ian, "Can't handle this, can't do that. Of course you can."

There's the look again. And, fuck. Lip realizes what the other element is. It's not just trust or longing or need, though all of that is in there. It's love.

Ian kisses Mickey's forehead. The panic fades from Ian's face as he kisses Mickey a second time. Mickey puts a hand to the side of Ian's jaw, traces his thumb down Ian's cheek. Mickey kisses him back.

Lip flushes with embarrassment, witnessing such intimacy. But it doesn't seem to matter to them that he is here, if they've even noticed him at all. It doesn't matter that the rest of the world even exists. They might as well be two tiny figures in their own snow globe.

"I'm sorry," Ian says, closing his eyes as Mickey strokes his cheek again.

"It's okay."

"I'm sorry."

"Shhh."

Lip watches Mickey soothing him, having guided Ian away from his instinct to run. None of the rest of them has ever been able to communicate with Ian like that, certainly not since he was a little kid. And it occurs to Lip that maybe it isn't Mickey who makes Ian such a mess. Maybe Ian makes himself a mess and Mickey's just the only one who gets—or cares about—the right way to put him back together.

This realization causes Lip's chest to cave a bit, the ceiling bowing down into the space that his heart was meant to occupy. He's never known his brother. He's never known anything at all he thought he did.

Lip starts to climb to his feet, understanding nothing but that he needs to leave them alone. He pauses, though, as someone comes through the door. His chest caves deeper at the sight of his mother.

He shrinks back into his huddle, willing himself invisible. Or dead.

"Ian?" Monica calls out in a trembling voice, "Ian, I'm sorry. I'll go."

Ian and Mickey both turn at the sound of her voice. Ian stares at her, petrified, but Mickey repositions himself beside him.

"It's just…" She folds her arms tight against the cold as she tries to explain, "I wanted to show you that I'm doing better. I'm trying. I got meds again, you know? I don't like 'em much, but I'm trying. I wanna get better for you, Ian. All of you. I miss you…"

Monica bows her head and nods several times as Ian doesn't respond.

"This was a bad idea," she says, "I'm sorry. I'm gonna go. I don't wanna ruin Thanksgiving for everyone. I don't wanna ruin it again…"

Lip glances up as Fiona appears in the doorway, Debbie and Carl behind her. She and Lip exchange a look, then both return their attention to Ian.

He is still stone-faced, but he is walking forward now as Monica continues to babble.

"I shouldn't have…I don't know why I thought it would be good. My head's a mess right now. These drugs make me so dumb…I should just…I wanna go back to sleep…"

Ian stops at the bottom step as he notices Fiona and Debbie and Carl. His eyes linger on them a moment before he looks back to Monica.

He climbs the steps slowly, steeling himself.

"You can stay if you want to," Ian tells her once he reaches the top, "But don't fucking talk to me."

Monica lifts her head to look at him, but he walks past her. Fiona and the kids move aside as Ian goes into the house.

"Hey, man," Carl calls to Mickey, "You coming?"

Mickey sighs climbs the steps. He pushes passes Monica who is still looking stupidly at the space where Ian was. Mickey shakes his head at Fiona and allows Carl and Debbie to take him inside.

"Go, Mom," Fiona says, gently turning Monica toward the door and giving her a scoot, "Get in there before your food gets cold."

Once Monica is gone and they're alone, Fiona asks Lip, "What about you? You comin' in?"

He shrugs.

"You mad at me?"

"No," he replies faintly, surprised to find his voice works after all these hours not using it.

"What happened to your face?"

"Ian."

"Well, that was a long time comin'."

"Eighteen years."

"Looks like he let you off easy."

Lip glances toward the house, dread heavy in his stomach. "The hell were you thinkin'?" he asks.

"I just got tired of fightin'," she explains, opening the door and ushering them both in, "I'm so damn tired, Lip."

He nods. He is tired too. He's not sure he has ever felt so tired in his life. But he hauls himself to his feet and follows her inside.

* * *

 

Everyone is distracted for a while with the flurry of accommodating the additional guests. Debbie has dragged up Liam's old high chair for Yevgeny and Carl brings in all the kitchen chairs and the one from the desk without even being asked. There is a folding card table covered with fancy desserts that Lip recognizes as having Sheila's touch—he figures those are what Debbie made while she was over there yesterday.

"Move these," Fiona instructs him.

He's experiencing that peculiar sensation again that he is watching this all play out on a fuzzy television set. Everyone looks a little odd to him and their voices sound tinny and distant. Even his hands feel like they're not fully attached as he does as he is told, transferring the abundance of pies and cakes to the piano bench. He carries each one from the dining room to the living room, amazed that it is floating before him without falling, that he is managing to support them with these flimsy extensions of his useless body.

He sets down the last of the cakes and stares at it, that sense of inevitable doom baring down on him. Between his throbbing head and this creeping dread, all he would really like to do is walk away, find a bed to hide under somewhere and wait out the apocalypse. But he is just a passive viewer with no control over the programming schedule. His feet move him back to the show, and he ignores the guy in his head screaming about icebergs.

When Lip returns to the dining room, the card table has been moved over to expand the regular table and everyone is scooting their chairs and plates around, reorganizing.

"We actually just started," Fiona says brightly, passing the newcomers doubled-up paper plates, "Haven't even carved the turkey yet. There's forks and napkins over there and, well, help yourselves."

Lip tries putting things on his plate, but he can't see well with his swollen eye and he keeps spilling. He lets go of the stuffing spoon and watches dumbly as Amanda takes it from him, and fills his plate. He should be annoyed with this assistance, but instead he is momentarily taken with the way she effortlessly does what needs to be done. There's something so graceful about it, how light problems always seem to be in her hands.

"Oh, Lip—what happened to you?"

"Huh?" He reluctantly pulls his eyes away from Amanda's soft profile and looks to Monica's dopey, rode-hard face. The dream feeling slips away from him slightly. Monica looks better than the last time he saw her—she's clean now; her hair and clothes are neat enough. She no longer looks like she's on whatever the hell she was that night. Still, facing her like this is unnerving.

"What happened to your eye?" She asks. If one didn't know better, she'd sound like a real mother, the kind who cares that her kid's been hurt.

"Bumped it," he replies and turns away.

As he takes his seat, he overhears Carl ask Mickey, "Did you do that to Lip?"

Mickey shakes his head and reaches for the mashed potatoes, mouthing "Ian."

Carl raises his eyebrows at Ian, " _Shit_."

Once everyone has their plates filled with the sides, Fiona announces with one of her biggest, most desperate smiles, "Ian bought the turkey this year!"

"Yay!" Amanda cheers and begins clapping. After a beat, most of the table joins her, looking mildly embarrassed as they clap. Lip as watches bewildered as the Milkoviches clap too with strained smiles. Fuck if Amanda doesn't bulldoze everyone.

Fiona holds the knife and poultry fork out to Ian, "Wanna do the honors?"

Ian shovels a couple forkfuls of corn into his mouth and mumbles, "That's Lip's job."

She extends the utensils out to Lip instead. He stares at the tools and a sharp tinge of panic arises. He doesn't want anything to do with pretending he holds some importance anymore in the eyes of the rest of them. This is like some awful test.

"Think my depth perception's messed up right now," he manages to say, pointing vaguely at his bad eye.

"I'll do it!" Carl volunteers, grabbing for the knife.

Fiona expertly keeps it away from him and turns to Mickey.

Mickey's eyes go wide. "Uh-uh."

"Why can we not have meat yet?" Svetlana barks, "This is stupid tradition."

" _I_ will do the carving," Frank proclaims, rising from his chair and holding his Old Style high, "I am still the patriarch of this family, whether you like it or not."

He snatches the utensils from Fiona with an ugly smile and sets the beer can beside Lip's plate. "Keep an eye on that for me, will ya?"

The sour smell of the beer hits, and Lip looks away from it, trying to ignore the pang of desire.

He focuses his eyes on Fiona instead, watching Frank with bored contempt. Lip clings to the reassuring familiarity of this sight.

Frank takes a bow as he reaches the turkey and asks, "Shall I give a speech?"

"No!" A bunch of them shout back, drowning out Monica's faint "Oh, yes!"

"Just do it already," Carl groans and flicks a niblet of corn at Debbie.

"Cut it out."

"Make me."

"Stop it," Fiona hisses at them.

Carl and Debbie both start to lean into a fight but stop when Mickey says simply, "Cut it out."

Frank carves the bird, throwing off jagged slices at each plate as he goes, even casting a big hunk onto Yevgeny's high chair. It lands with thump and tilts the tray.

"So, where were you all today?" Fiona asks, ignoring Frank's performance.

Frank whips larger and more ungainly pieces across the table, and Lip finds his eyes magnetically pulled to this sight. He can't stop watching his arrogant father drunkenly performing the job that has always belonged to Lip. Lip's breath catches in his throat at this grotesque vision of his future.

Faintly somewhere Amanda is answering Fiona's question. "We picked everybody up in Green Bay."

This breaks the spell. Lip swallows and turns away from Lip-as-Frank-as-Lip and breathes again.

Fiona is asking Mickey what they were doing in Green Bay if he's been in Milwaukee all this time.

"I live in Green Bay now," Mandy clarifies, and her voice turns all the sounds clear and close again.

Fiona locks eyes with her, acknowledging her presence for the first time.

"Oh," Fiona replies after a second.

"There!" Frank declares, tossing the utensils to the floor, "That's how you carve a fuckin' turkey."

Pleased with himself, he strolls back to his seat, bumping everybody's chairs 'accidentally' as he passes.

He smiles and takes back his beer. Lip allows his gaze to drift down to his plate, safe once more, but he is puzzled by the dry slab of turkey that has appeared there.

"Are you back for good?" Debbie asks Mandy, unable to hide her eagerness at this prospect.

"Just for a couple days. I got stuff I gotta get back to."

"Well, that's nice," Fiona says blandly. She begins cutting up Liam's turkey for him and Lip wonders for the first time why Mandy has always irritated her so much. Maybe Mandy was Fiona's Mickey. Maybe Lip was Fiona's Ian. But this makes his head pound. They really are all just trapped in these stupid patterns.

"Do you have a boyfriend up there?" Debbie asks.

Mandy shifts her hair into her face, trying to hide her smile, her happiness. "I do."

"I have a boyfriend too now," Debbie beams, "Joaquin. He's so great. He's out in Aurora seeing his cousins tonight, though. But we're getting together tomorrow for Black Friday deals. He's gonna push all my carts for me. I can't wait to see how many more deals I can get this year now that I've finally got some muscle backing me up. Three able-bodied brothers and not one of _them_ ever helped."

"Joaquin sounds like a winner," Amanda remarks.

"Did you say you have a boyfriend, Debbie?" Monica asks, seeming to have woken up from a daze.

"Mmm," Debbie replies, tilting her head down and retreating in a perfect Mandy impersonation.

"Is he cute?" Monica smiles, leaning closer.

"I guess."

"Is he good in bed?"

The look Debbie gives her could curdle milk.

"Stop it," Fiona commands, "Let's talk about something else."

"What?" Monica giggles. She tosses Debbie a teasing look, but Debbie refuses to engage it.

"What kind of a name is Joaquin?" Monica pushes, still smiling that stupid we've-got-a-secret smile, "Is that Mexican?"

Debbie doesn't answer, but Monica seems to imagine she's gotten an enthusiastic response, the way she continues on.

"Aw, then he is good in bed! I've had a lot of—they call them Latinos now, right? Latinos?—I've had a lot of Mexican lovers and they're all great in the sack. Something about that macho thing, you know? _You_ know what I'm talkin' about. Oh, Ian! Remember that guy?"

Ian shakes his head, keeping his eyes on his turkey.

"You know! Remember? When we were at that party in Pilsen? We couldn't get anybody to give us any of the good stuff and he said if you—"

"I don't remember," Ian says quietly.

"Oh, he was so cute!" Monica gushes, leaning toward Ian and putting her hand on his, "With those muscles? You said he was totally your type and I said, 'Mine too!'"

Monica laughs with delight at this memory while Ian inches his hand away.

"And then you and him—"

"You need to stop talkin' right now," Mickey tells her.

"What? Why? We're just having fun."

"Yeah, Mom, stop it," Fiona says, "Just cut it out."

Monica frowns at her and at Mickey as well. Then her face lights up again and she looks to Ian.

"Is this Manny?"

"Who?" Carl asks.

"Oh," Monica sighs, looking at Mickey again but still talking to Ian, "I can see it. He really is your type."

Carl makes a face. "You mean Mickey?"

"How's everybody's food?" Fiona interjects loudly.

"Fantastic!" Amanda jumps in, "This stuffing is amazing. Is this a mix?"

Fiona takes a gulp of water and nods. "From Food-4-Less. The store brand. It's not bad."

"No," Amanda agrees, "This beats Martha Stewart."

"Who's Martha Stewart?" Carl asks.

"Oh, she's a convict who has a whole cooking and lifestyle empire," Amanda informs him, "You'd like her a lot."

"She's kinda passé," Debbie mutters.

"Hi, Liam!" Monica smiles, wiggling her fingers at him like he's still a baby.

He looks at her warily and Fiona tells him, "Eat your corn."

"How's your head, honey?" Monica asks him.

"Lip's the one who hurt his head," Carl says, "You can tell the difference 'cause Lip's, like, twenty. And white."

"No," Monica laughs, "I meant from the crack."

Frank snickers and pats her arm. "Coke, Monny, it was coke. He isn't on the pipe quite yet."

That cuts through the pounding in Lip's brain a little. He glances over at Fiona. She is sitting deathly still, staring into her water glass with her lips pressed together tight.

"Liam's fine," Ian says without looking up, "All good. We're all fine."

"Ah, sure," Frank says, "Let's see…"

He reclines one arm on the back of his chair and begins pointing at his children one by one around the table. "Lip: drunkard. Ian: psycho. Fiona: ex-con. Carl: future con. Debbie…well, you know she's up to somethin', and Liam: gonna be attending mandatory Narcotics Anonymous before he starts kindergarten. Sounds pretty fine to me. How did we ever raise such impressive little citizens?"

"You didn't," Fiona takes the bait, "You think maybe that's the problem?"

"Oh, I believe _you_ wanted to be in charge," Frank says. He gives her a sarcastic shrug and takes a sip of Old Style.

"Frank, stop," Monica says, taking his beer from him and setting it down firmly, as if this is the real problem. She turns back to Fiona and smiles.

"I was thinkin' about that, Fiona. Now that I'm all good, I can come back, you know? And…and you can go back to school. Or whatever! Whatever you want to do, you can do it now. I'm home!"

Fiona rests her head in her hand. "Oh, god. Just stop…"

"I wanna help."

"I don't need any help."

"Well, obviously you do, right? I mean, with Liam and Ian and everything…And Carl and Debbie! They need me too. You can't do it all alone, sweetie. Look what happens."

Fiona scoffs and lifts her head. "You're right. I can't. But I am not alone. I got Lip and Ian—" she gestures toward them sharply, "Remember them? And Mickey? That's his name, okay? _Mickey_. He helps a lot too. And, hell—" she gestures across the table again, "I even got Amanda on my team these days. I got plenty of help. We don't need you."

"But, honey, I'm better now. Doin' everything I'm supposed to. I can be a good mom again."

"Yeah, and how long does that ever last? Next week or next month when you decide it's too hard, and you don't wanna do it anymore? And don't even talk about bein' a _good mom_. You barely ever managed passable."

"I am not a bad mother!" Monica shouts, "I took care of Ian when none of you wanted him around! He came to _me_."

"Yeah, 'cause he was fucking crazy," Carl replies.

"How did you _take care_ of him?" Mandy cries with revulsion, "You pimped him out for drugs!"

A wave of cold water seems to crash over everything. Lip's plate goes blurry as he sees instead that filthy squat with Ian's kit bag, those men pawing at Ian's pale body under the rainbow lights of the club, Ian with his Bambi eyes as Lip walked in on him and Kash…

"I didn't!" Monica is screaming, her face crumpled into tears, "I didn't do that!"

Frank chuckles, "Ian does like pimps."

Lip struggles to come back, and focuses on finding Ian, finally locating him in this churning room. But Ian isn't looking at any of them, eyes still fixed on his plate, unblinking. Beside him, Mickey has gone rigidly still.

"He never did anything he didn't wanna do," Monica is shrieking from the far end of some tunnel, "Why do you blame me for everything?!"

Lip tries to close his eyes. He doesn't want to see anymore of this. The silence of his siblings' collective horror is bad enough.

Fiona slams her hands on the table and stands up. "Frank? Monica? You both need to leave right now."

Yevgeny is crying and Svetlana pulls him out of his seat. She casts them all a disgusted look as she carries him out to the kitchen.

"You fuckin' pieces of shit," Mickey mutters, coming back to life. He starts to rise from his chair, but stops when Ian speaks.

"It's not worth it," Ian whispers, eyes still fixed downward, "I don't care."

"Well, I do."

"Just don't."

Reluctantly, Mickey sits, but Lip can see his fists still balled tightly in his lap. There's something reassuring about those fists. Lip hasn't got it in him to fight anymore, none of them do, but Mickey still does. He's not tired yet.

Monica hangs her head and starts to sob.

"Oh, Jesus," Fiona sighs. She pushes her hair back from her head and says, "Lip, I'm sorry, but I need a drink."

"I don't understand," Monica blubbers, "All I wanted to do was see my kids, show you I'm doing good now. I'm better. If it upsets you that much just to see me, how come you let Ian stay? He's just like me now. How come you love Ian, but you can't love me?"

"Unbelievable," Fiona says, pacing now with her arms crossed, eyes on the ceiling. She stops at Mandy's chair and asks her, "You got a smoke?"

Mandy doesn't hide her surprise, but does produce a cigarette, light it, and hand it over.

"Thanks."

Fiona takes a few puffs as she continues to pace. No one is eating anymore. No one is even moving. It's just Fiona pacing and Monica sobbing. Even Frank seems struck dumb by the building tension. Lip watches him take a slow sip of beer and can taste it rolling down the back of his own throat. That would soothe this rising panic inside him, push it all back down where it belongs.

Svetlana returns with a calmed Yevgeny on her hip, takes one look at the scene and retreats right back to the kitchen. Lip wishes he could move. He'd do the exact same thing.

Finally, Fiona stops pacing. She turns toward Monica like a gunslinger.

"First of all," Fiona says, "We do love you. All of us keep tryin' and tryin' not to, but it never seems to take. So don't worry about that. You can go to bed tonight restin' easy knowin' there's nothing you can do, not a shitty thing left, that'll do the trick. Congratulations."

Fiona pauses for another drag, but it's mostly a cover to give her a chance to glance at Ian, check in on how he's doing. He still isn't looking up from the table, though, and she shifts her eyes back to Monica.

"But lovin' you," Fiona continues, "With all the crap you've pulled on us all our lives? That hurts, and it never stops. But it's always about you, right? It's _always_ about you."

Monica is still weeping. She wipes her face with her sleeve, and Frank offers her his napkin with elaborate chivalry.

Fiona drops her hands to her sides. "And you wanna know why all of us like havin' Ian here? 'Cause Ian isn't like you. Not one bit. Ian's tryin', and he's doin' great. Ian actually gives a shit about us, Mom. He doesn't just run away every time things get hard."

_But he does_ , Lip thinks, surprised to find the fury still sharp inside of him, _That's exactly what he's planning to do._

Frank chuckles, leaning forward with renewed interest.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says, grinning at Fiona then turning his head to Lip, "This the same Ian you were bawlin' about like a drunken fool last night, sayin' how he's runnin' off to Bumfuck, Iowa or someplace to start a new life without any of you? That the same Ian?"

Lip gapes at him. Frank has just spoken Lip's exact thoughts. The hairs rise on the back of Lip's neck.

A wave of nausea overtakes him, and he shuts his eyes tight to hold it back. It's happening, it's finally happening. The Shitty Ship Gallagher is going under. Lip almost tears up, he needs a drink so badly. He is Frank and Ian is Monica, and they're all so fucking doomed.

"What is he talkin' about?" Mickey asks Ian.

Lip opens his eyes, no choice but to watch as the ship collides with the iceberg.

"I need to lie down," Monica sniffles, stumbling from the table as she makes her way to the couch, grabbing whatever lifeboat she can get, "I'm sorry, kids. Mommy needs a nap."

Mickey's glare does not waver and Ian blanches under the weight of it.

Ian swallows and asks, "Can we talk about this later?"

"No, we fuckin' cannot. You're gonna sit here right now and tell us what the hell is goin' on."

Ian casts his eyes around the table, taking in everyone waiting.

He sits back in his chair and swallows again. "I put in for a transfer."

"To where?" Fiona asks coldly, sitting back down hard.

He glances over at her, then to Debbie, then back to Mickey. "Downstate," he replies, "Centralia. It's kinda near Urbana."

"Why would you do that?" Debbie asks.

"Yeah," Carl adds, "The hell's down there?"

Suddenly, Lip wakes with a surge of energy as he realizes everybody is on his side this time. He is not the hated, selfish jerk they merely tolerate—he's in the right on this. Everybody is just as angry and frustrated with Ian as he is. Even Mickey is on Lip's side.

"He wants a fresh start," Lip tattles bitterly, feeling like himself again for the first time in hours, "He wants to go someplace where he doesn't have any family. Be a new man."

Mickey looks at Lip incredulously.

"I _know_ ," Lip agrees, "He _doesn't_ give a shit about any of us."

"That's not true!" Ian argues.

Mickey turns back to him. "Why the fuck would you wanna do that?"

"Cause I'm sick of it, okay? I'm sick of being reminded every fucking second that there's something wrong with me. I'm sick of not being able to go anywhere around here or do anything without being reminded that there was someone I was supposed to be, someone I _should_ be, a whole _life_ I was supposed to have!"

"Ian," Fiona says softly, "Goin' somewhere else isn't gonna change that."

"It'll make it easier," Ian asserts, sounding like this is something he's repeated to himself a hundred times, "Nobody there knows who I used to be—who I was supposed to be. They won't even know that there's anything wrong with me. I'll just be like everyone else."

"There isn't anything _wrong_ with you," Debbie says, sounding like a pamphlet, "With proper management, you can live a totally normal life."

Ian rolls his eyes. "I'm never gonna get to be normal here. You're always gonna look at me and see _her_. The way you guys talk to me and act around me? I'm not stupid. You're all just waiting for it to happen, waiting for me to fuck up. And I have, okay? I've done so much shit, and I never wanted you guys to know about any of that. But nobody ever forgets. And you're never gonna let me forget either."

"Well, grow the hell up and get over it," Fiona snaps, "It's gonna take time for everybody to get used to trustin' that you're not gonna end up like her. We're scared to death, Ian. And you would be too. But you think it's just you? I mean, god, you know how long it took Lip to trust me alone with Liam again? I still don't even think he really does. And yeah that pisses me off and hurts. But we'll get there, okay? Give us a goddamn break."

Ian stomps his foot and shouts, "You all make me feel like shit!"

"That's what family's for!" Lip shouts right back at him.

Ian glares at him. As if setting off a sense memory of the last time they exchanged words today, Lip's head starts throbbing. He pushes through it, though, empowered by his outrage.

"You remember that time we drove out to see Clayton?" Lip says, "Remember when you freaked out? Lectured _me_ about how important our family was, how much it meant to you? You're up to your eyeballs with family—we love you and we give a shit about you, _they_ love you and _they_ give a shit about you—but now that doesn't mean anything?"

"I can't believe you want to leave again," Debbie says, "You promised you wouldn't."

"Debs," Ian sighs, his anger folding into misery, "This is different."

"Guess in Centralia nobody'll know what a liar you are either," Carl sneers.

"Fuck," Ian whispers and puts his hands over his face, mumbling, "I'm not just doing this for me."

Fiona is angrily cutting up her turkey into pieces, refusing to look at him anymore. "Sounds pretty fuckin' selfish to me," she comments.

Ian lowers his hands. "Whenever she goes away, it's better," he says, "Every time she comes back, we get hurt. We were always so much better when she stayed away."

"But you're not her," Debbie argues helplessly.

Fiona continues slicing her turkey into tinier and tinier pieces. "You don't think if she'd stuck around and actually tried and hadn't just kept droppin' us and givin' up and runnin' away, we'd do anything to get her to stay?"

"No," Ian says resolutely, "'Cause she'd still hurt us. That's what she does. That's what I do too. And I don't wanna hurt anybody anymore."

"Well," Fiona laughs humorlessly and sets her knife down with a forceful clank, "Nice job with that."

Mickey has been silent throughout this exchange, watching with a steadily hardening expression. Now he speaks and his voice is eerie in its calm.

"So, uh, where do I fit in this little plan? Didn't hear you mention anything about me."

The self-righteousness drops from Ian's face, replaced by terror.

"That why you kept pushin' me to stay away?" Mickey asks, "So you could put this whole plan together and then just disappear without even havin' to say goodbye? This some sick, fuckin' joke?"

"No," Ian shakes his head vehemently, "That wasn't about this. That wasn't—that's not—shit. This isn't how it was supposed to—"

Mickey watches impassively as Ian stumbles and sputters to explain himself.

Ian closes his eyes and takes a shuddery breath. He keeps his eyes closed as he speaks.

"When you left for Milwaukee that night—"

"Look at me."

Ian opens his eyes and curls his hand up in the plastic tablecloth as he looks at Mickey. Lip watches the cartoon turkey print stretch and distort and all the energy Lip has so briefly regained starts to dissipate. His heart begins to speed up, the thumping loud in his ears. Water is filling the hulls.

"When I saw how much it hurt you to find out what I'd been doing—" Ian is saying, the sound falling far away.

Lip blinks and tries to catch hold of that power he'd had just a minute earlier. He can't find anything, though but the mounting dread. It's the same monster of his nightmares these past months, but this time there isn't any whiskey to drown it with.

He hears Mickey, echo-y: "Of course it fuckin' hurt me!"

"You know," Frank says, pushing back his chair and standing up, "I don't think I can take anymore of this very touching bit of dinner theater without additional libation. Anyone with me?"

Lip stares at Frank even as everyone else ignores him. Once again, he's voiced exactly what Lip was thinking. What is this perverse ventriloquist act?

Frank looks back at Lip and gives him a knowing smile. "You wanna join me?"

Lip can't answer. He can't breathe under water.

Frank cackles and brushes him off then saunters to the kitchen. Lip can hear him saying something to Svetlana, but does his best not to float off in that direction. He pulls his attention back to the argument that everyone, even Liam, is watching with rubbernecker curiosity.

"But when you were gone, I felt better," Ian is arguing with shaky determination, talking to the table again, "'Cause I thought 'Good. If I'm not around you, I can't keep hurting you.'"

"You don't think it killed me every day you told me to stay away? You don't think that hurt worse than all the other stupid fuckin' things you've ever done?"

Ian shakes his head as he mumbles, "There's something wrong with me."

"We already know," Carl says, "Big deal."

"Stay outta this, Carl," Fiona warns him.

Mickey scrubs his hands down his face and lets out a deep breath before he says in a carefully modulated tone, "I understand that you're sick. I understand that you can't control—"

"It's not just that," Ian interrupts him, "I can't just blame that. There's something else. There's something that's not right about how I am. I keep doing these things and it's all me doing them, and I don't know why I don't stop…"

Because he can't. None of them has any choice but to be Gallagher fuck-ups. It's in their history, in their genetics, in their stars. Can't use those to navigate for shit.

There is pain written all over Mickey's face, but when he speaks his voice is soft.

"Ian," he says, "There ain't nothin' wrong with you that you can't make better. You just gotta let me help."

"All you do is help. That's not a life."

"How 'bout you let me decide that?"

"Cause you won't. How long are you gonna keep dealing with my bullshit while everything else out there passes you by?"

"As long as it takes. Fuckin' forever! That's what bein' married is!"

"No," Ian shakes his head, pleading with the table, "I never should've put you in that position. With Yev and with Svet and with…with everything that happened…that was all forced on you. And then I did the same thing! You couldn't say no."

"I chose you!" Mickey roars, "The one fuckin' decision I got to make in my life. And now you think that you get to decide all by yourself that _I_ didn't know what I was doin', and you don't even talk to me about it, just cut me right out? That ain't how it works!"

Ian buries his head in his hands and mutters, "Look at what you were able to do in Milwaukee when you didn't have me around, draining everything you've got. Your life is so much easier if I'm not in it."

"You don't think I thought about that? You don't think I spent however many nights you were just layin' there like a goddamn corpse or fightin' with me or screamin' at me or bawlin' like a psycho thinkin' 'I don't fuckin' need this. I don't fuckin' need to stay here'? You don't think the idea crossed my mind that my life would be a whole fuck of a lot easier without you?"

Ian parts his hands and looks up at Mickey. His eyes are brimming with tears—Lip recognizes that shame like he's looking in a mirror.

"But I still married you," Mickey says sharply. He scowls and rubs his knuckles against the edge of the table. "Cause I don't want a life without you. Why the hell would you sentence me to that?"

Ian hides under his hands once more. "You're gonna resent me."

"I never complained! Not once have I ever fuckin' complained about this."

"But you will. You're gonna wake up someday and you'll be old and have nothing but me and my problems, and you'll hate me. I don't know why you don't already."

Mickey shakes his head in amazement, "I hate the stupid shit you pull. I hate that you fuckin' shut me out. But I don't hate you. How could—"

" _I_ do," Ian spits back. His voice trembles as he continues, "I hate who I am now. I hate myself so much."

This statement sinks in for a long, awful moment. Lip sees that little kid who used to laugh so easily, that boy who rounded the bases in his Goodwill cleats with the grace of a professional, that guy who used to brag over shared joints about shaving another two seconds off his best time…Lip sees them all evaporating.

But Mickey nods his head reassuringly and replies, "Then we gotta work on that."

"I can't," Ian shakes his head, blinking back tears, "Not here. It's too hard."

Lip's stomach turns at this confirmation. Ian won't even fight, not for any of them or for Mickey or for who he always was. That kid who never gave up on anything is gone.

Mickey bolts to his feet.

"Don't tell me you're fuckin' serious about this," he growls, "You're not movin' anywhere. This is just another one of those stupid ideas you get fixed on 'cause you don't wanna actually have to fuckin' deal with your shit."

For one second, Lip becomes frantically hopeful. Mickey can do this—Lip's seen it. Mickey can talk sense into Ian. Mickey can drag him back. Mickey knows how to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.

But Ian just sits there. He's shutting down, and, giving up. And why shouldn't he? He's a Gallagher. They are every one of them destined to fuck up anything good in their lives.

Mickey is yelling now. "You actually got no problem just abandoning everyone one who loves you—your whole fuckin' family, _our_ fuckin' family—so you can just start over somewhere else? What kinda person does that? You think that's better than stayin' here with all of us and actually facin' your shit? You that fuckin' selfish?"

Ian remains despondent. Lip pleads silently, trying to send him one of those psychic nudges he used to think they could exchange when they were little boys and shared everything. _Fight for this, Ian. Fight not to be her. Fight for something, anything…_

"Jesus Fuckin' Christ," Mickey mutters, stalking a few paces into the living room.

Ian follows him, but then just stands there limply.

Mickey stares at him with disgust. "So, what? Is this how you fuckin' say it's over?"

"Mick…"

The sneer drops off Mickey's face. His eyes widen in disbelief. "Is this really it?" he asks, "This you quittin' on me?"

Ian bows his head and whispers, "I don't know. I don't know what to do."

"Aw, fuck you and your 'I don't knows.' I fuckin' know how I feel about you and what this all means to me. _I don't know_. You better fuckin' figure it out."

Ian lowers himself onto the couch, Monica passed out beside him. He closes his eyes and seems to be trying to curl as deep inside himself as he can.

"You know what?" Mickey says as he snatches up his coat, "You wanna decide everything by your damn self? Wanna be an independent operator? Then I'll leave it up to you."

He slides his coat on and zips it. "I'm tired of chasin' you, Ian. I'm tired of bein' lied to and shut out. I'm tired of feelin' like what we got only means somethin' to me."

Ian lifts his head, as if this impression is shocking and offensive to him. "You're the best thing I've got in my life."

Mickey looks back at Ian then shakes his head. "Then how 'bout treatin' me like that sometime? This is the most you said to me in months. Woulda been nice to hear some of it before you already had your bags packed and both feet out the door."

Lip wants to scream watching Ian sit silent as the water rises, swallowing up everything he still had left. _Fight, Ian. Please, Fight._ But Ian can't fight anymore than Lip can. Having any chance at happiness at all was only ever an illusion.

Mickey is at the door now. He is shaking, even as his voice remains steady: "I'll see ya tonight if that's what you decide. If you don't wanna try, though, if you wanna keep dickin' around, goin' off and doin' every fuckin' thing on your own….then I guess I won't see ya."

He holds up his hands, washing them of everything, and says, "Up to you."

And Mickey is gone. Lip bows his head in defeat.

Far away he hears Mandy get up, stomp over to retrieve her own coat. "You're an asshole," she tells Ian.

The cartoon turkeys on the tablecloth double-up and overlap blurrily, mocking Lip and his useless hope. His head is throbbing worse than ever. Perhaps he's getting the bends.

"Come on, Svet!" Mandy hollers, "We're leaving!"

Lip watches blearily as Svetlana emerges from the kitchen with Yevgeny in her arms and a can of Old Style in her hand. She looks over the room with eyebrows raised. She mutters something to herself in Russian, and follows Mandy. Lip doesn't need a translation to know what she has recognized.

Ian remains on the couch with his head in his hands while they bundle up to leave. The silence in the room increases its pressure as everything sinks deeper into the dark Atlantic.

When Mandy and Svetlana have gone, Ian kicks the coffee table, sending all the junk sliding off of it.

"Stop it," Fiona says, "I am _not_ happy with you right now."

Frank comes back in then, humming merrily to himself and carrying three more Old Styles in the crook of his arm. He retakes his seat and sets the cans out in a row before him. "What I miss?"

"Shut up!" Fiona barks, startling the kids and Amanda to attention. Lip just watches her with numb detachment. There is nothing he can do about anything. There's nothing any of them can do.

Fiona pushes the hair back from her face again and says, "Not another word, Frank, or I'll throw you in the alley myself." She raises her voice and calls out, "Ian? Sit down."

The threat in her tone alarms Ian enough that he does what he is told even if he moves like he is half-asleep. He retakes his seat at the table, and Carl scoots his own chair a few inches away from him in protest. Debbie casts Ian a withering look.

"Mom?" Fiona calls out to the living room, receiving no response. She sets her jaw and says to herself, "Fine. It doesn't matter."

Then she fixes them all with dagger eyes and informs them, "If this is the last Thanksgiving dinner we get to have as a family, we are going to finish it, even if it kills us. Got it?"

She gets a few terrified murmurs of agreement in response.

"Good," she says, switching over to a tone of firm politeness as she picks up her fork, "Now, does anyone have anything remotely pleasant to talk about?"

There is only silence.

Lip drags his gaze back to the cartoon turkeys on the tablecloth, but they go blurry and become blobs. His heart is starting to pick up speed once more as his family falls apart all around him. He needs to gulp for breath, but he can't.

Fiona has pounced on Debbie now, asking her how Sheila's doing, what she's up to these days. Lip can hear Debbie struggling to perform this charade of normalcy in kind. And the band played on. Lip tries not to listen.

The throbbing in his head and the pounding of his heart are growing more insistent, filling his whole body tight to bursting. Somewhere Debbie is saying something about a used car. A Ford Taurus with good mileage. But it wasn't a Taurus. It was a 've been doomed since the backseat of the Cavalier. What the hell ever made them think they could change anything? What stupidity compelled them to look around that Park 'n Ride, that desolate ocean surrounding their tiny raft, and convince themselves they could paddle enough to reach a shore?

"I don't mind you keeping Sheila company," Fiona is saying, "But why would you want to spend so much of your Christmas break driving across the country with her?"

"When else am I ever going to get to go anyplace for free?"

_Go_ , Lip implores Debbie soundlessly, _Go and never come back. We're all fucked anyway._

"You okay?" Amanda whispers to him.

He squeezes his eyes shut. It hurts like hell all this pounding, and he can't tell which is his heart and which is his head anymore. He tries to remember if the bends eventually cause your body to explode or if it's more of a silent implosion kind of thing, your corpse deflating through its seams as it sinks to the hadopalegic. Only his shoes will remain.

"Oh, you are _not_ bringing Joaquin! Jesus, Debbie, you're fourteen years old. I knew this had to be a ploy."

"It was Sheila's idea! She wants someone to help share the driving."

"Then she can hire a chauffer."

"God, you're such a hypocrite! How many times did you let Ian have Mickey sleep over last year? You let Mandy _live_ here when she and Lip were dating! Talk about misogynistic double-standards!"

Fiona is saying something about the difference between seventeen and fourteen, but Lip is thinking about Mandy now, Mandy in his bed when that used to be his room, Mandy telling him that she hoped he'd move away and take her with him. He should've begged her to do the same for him—she's the one who got out. She wasn't cursed to be a Gallagher. But it wouldn't have mattered anyway, even if he'd been smart enough to know to ask…he couldn't have left his genes behind.

"What about that, Lip?"

"Lip?"

He pushes his head back to the surface with a gasp. "What?"

The irritation on Debbie's face confuses him as she talks, clearly repeating something she's already said, "Before she suggested Joaquin, Sheila wanted me to ask you to come. Do you wanna help drive to Arizona for Christmas? You could see Karen."

Lip's heart stops.

"Please?" Debbie asks, "I really wanna go. Jody says she's a lot closer to being more like a normal person now. Well, not normal-normal, but, you know…"

Amanda puts her hand over his, and Lip's heart jolts back to its lopsided gallop again. He manages to swallow and take a shallow breath.

"No," he says faintly, "I don't want to see her."

"Come on! Can't you ever do one thing for anybody else?"

"Ah, Karen," Frank muses wistfully, "She was a spirited piece of ass…"

Lip presses his palms into his eyes.

"I don't think he'll have time to make the drive, anyway," Amanda says, attempting to save him, "He's got so much work to catch up on if he wants to get his scholarship reinstated. He'll need all the time over winter break he can get."

Lip lowers his hands and stares at Amanda as every piece of his body turns to ice.

"What?" She asks, cocking her head to the side. Then she realizes. "Oh! Oh, no."

"You lost your scholarship?" Debbie shrieks.

"Oh, shit," Carl laughs with astonished delight, "Are you flunking out? You're worse than me!"

They all know now; it's real. No one, not Frank or Monica or anyone, has ever failed them like he has. There's no Carpathia or Californian coming.

Lip forces himself to look at Fiona then immediately regrets it. The only other time he's ever seen that anguish in her eyes was when he let the cops drag her away.

"That's the only thing you had to do," Fiona says with disbelief, "The only responsibility you have…Get through school. How lazy do you have to be to let yourself fuck that up?"

He is hot with shame now and dizzy. He can't move and everywhere he casts his eyes, they're all staring at him, demanding some kind of answer he doesn't have. Even Ian, who's been sitting catatonic in his own wreckage, is looking at Lip, Bambi eyes in full force.

"I'm sorry," Amanda says as Lip's listless gaze trails over her too, "I forgot they didn't know."

And then Lip lands on Frank. Frank is laughing, his whole body shaking with mirth.

Frank's laughter reverberates inside Lip's head, joining all the other pounding and throbbing in there. Lip tries to close his eyes or look away, but he can't stop watching Frank laugh. This is Lip's father, taking such pleasure in his son's failure. It must be so much fun for him to watch all of them running away as fast at they can and getting snapped right back every time by the rubber band that connects them.

Somewhere, far off, a cell phone dings. Lip pays no attention to it, unable to let go of watching Frank, hearing every cruel intake of breath and resultant laugh. Some part of Lip's brain, though, the part that still doggedly needs to watch out for them, registers the sounds of Carl diving from the table to retrieve his phone, scuffling with Fiona as she tries to yank him back and tells him now isn't the time to be texting his friends.

"It's important," Carl promises, "I've been waiting all day!"

He must successfully kick her off because a moment later, Carl cheers from the living room like he's won the lottery, "Sweet! She's not pregnant!"

"Who?!" Fiona cries.

"My girl!"

Then Frank really cracks up. He throws his head back with a peal of laughter and slaps the table as it dissolves into chaos. Fiona and Debbie are yelling and jumping up from their chairs. Carl is yelling back. Amanda is saying something in an ludicrously calm tone, trying to reassure Liam that everything is fine, everyone's just playing around.

But Lip remains motionless amidst it all, compelled only and horribly to keep watching Frank laugh.

And then, as if the ventriloquist act reverses its polarity, Lip hears himself laughing.

Frank's face reaches some new level of delight at this. Frank laughs harder and louder as Lip laughs with him. They've got the same damn laugh, and it's the funniest fucking thing. Lip communes with this Ghost of Christmas Future, gives in to the sight of his own bloodshot eyes and bashed up face and venal pleasure in everybody else's suffering. Lip looks fate in the eye and laughs like a drunken fool.

He can't stop laughing, even as his siblings grow silent and he feels them staring again. Even as Frank's laughter dissolves into a couple of hiccups and Frank replenishes his throat with a sip of beer, Lip still can't stop laughing. It's just so absurd, this comedy of futility they're all playing part in. They are all so deeply fucked, so helplessly, endlessly, clearly fucked. And yet they just keep trying! How many different ways do they each have to get fucked before they accept that this family is destiny's bitch? How much pain do they have to bring upon themselves and all the poor idiots left in their trail of collateral damage? Don't they know that they should've just been euthanized like a litter of mangy puppies to begin with? Where does this farcical hope still keep coming from? It's all so tragically fucked…

He puts his head down next to his plate and laughs hysterically with the cartoon turkeys. Gobble, gobble, gobble. All the way to the slaughterhouse.

"I thought he was supposed to be sober," Carl says.

"Shhh," Fiona hisses, "Shush."

"What's wrong with him?" Debbie asks.

Lip lifts his head, wiping the tears from his face.

"I'm fucked, Debs!" He screams, "You're fucked! We're all fucked! It's all fuckin' hilarious!"

He chokes, uncertain whether he's about to start laughing again or about to throw up. Instead, he puts his head back on the table and realizes that he's sobbing.

* * *

 

The next thing Lip is really aware of is Ian helping him out of his chair. Ian supports most of Lip's weight and marches him through the kitchen.

"You kickin' me out like Frank?" Lip mumbles as Ian tries to keep holding him up while unlocking the back door.

"No," Ian sighs, "Just getting you some air."

Lip manages to find his feet as they walk through the yard, but Ian props one side of him up to guide him. It's cold and eerily quiet out here.

"Starting to worry I gave you a concussion," Ian remarks as he shoves Lip up into the driver's seat of the van.

Ian slams the door and Lip slumps against it, watching Ian hustle around the hood and climb in on the passenger side. Then Ian sits unobtrusively and waits for him to calm down.

Lip sniffles and takes a few shuddery breaths. His head is pounding still, but at least his heart is no longer racing. The dread and panic are gone too; everything he's been so afraid of has finally happened.

He bends to blow his nose on the sleeve of his sweater, but Ian stops him. Ian hands over a paper napkin he must have still had in his hand when he dragged Lip out.

"This is all torn up," Lip notes stupidly. He runs his finger along the shredded and twisted edges and feels the depression sitting in his gut like a kettlebell.

"Kinda a stressful night."

"Mmm." Lip stops examining the napkin and blows his nose into it. Then he crumples it up. He'd give anything for a drink or at least a cigarette, but right now he has neither.

"Why don't you just go?" He says to Ian.

"No way."

"I'm not gonna take off on a bender or somethin'. I don't even have a coat. And, anyway, you don't give a shit."

"Stop saying that."

"Well, you don't, so go."

"No." Ian settles deeper into the seat and stretches out his legs, "I'm not going anywhere 'til you tell me what's going on."

"Well, my head's pretty messed up from this psycho goin' off on it today. Maybe you did give me a concussion."

Ian sighs. "Is it just that the classes are harder than you thought? Is that what the drinking thing's about too?"

Lip closes his eyes and wills Ian to leave him in his misery. He is exhausted.

"Amanda said you've got a chance to make the stuff up, right?" Ian says, "You can pull that off."

"No, I can't."

"Of course you can. How many papers have you written an hour before they were due? How many papers did you write for people in classes you never even took?"

"It's not the same. I can't get away with that stuff anymore."

"Okay. But you've got extra time. You telling me you can't write a couple of papers and reports in a month?"

"Yes. I'm telling you even if they gave me _six_ months to do it all, a _thousand_ months, I still couldn't get it done, all right? Jesus."

"Why?"

"Cause I've lost my fuckin' mind."

"That so?"

"Apparently you don't have exclusive rights on that anymore," Lip mutters.

He can feel Ian watching him, but Lip refuses to open his eyes. He just wants everything to go away. Then he hears Ian rooting around, pushing crap out of the way, checking the glove compartment, then under the visors and seats.

"Ah."

Lip opens his eyes as Ian peels the cellophane off a pack of Golds and passes one over to him.

"The hell?" Lip mumbles, leaning over so Ian can give him a light and then sitting back, "First the weed in the box spring, now a pack of smokes under the seats of the van? How much crap you got stashed around here?"

"It was under the center console," Ian corrects him, "It's never been fully attached."

"What's with all the hiding places?"

Ian exhales a long stream of smoke and explains, "I used to boost a lot of shit from the Kash and Grab."

"Thought you were a perfect Boy Scout."

"He would've let me take the whole register home if I'd ever asked. Kash was such a pussy."

Lip doesn't comment on this.

"Anyway," Ian continues, "You and Fiona were always stealing my smokes."

"That's 'cause you always had them."

"So whenever I had a carton, I put a few packs away where you guys wouldn't find them. I still got some all over the house. I don't even remember all the spots."

"You're like a fuckin' squirrel."

Ian shrugs. "Winter is long."

Lip smiles at this and takes another drag. He wonders idly if Ian was keeping secrets as far back as the womb.

"So, tell me about losing your mind," Ian says, "What's that like?"

This was another plan. Ian's just been pacifying him with the cigarette, putting him at ease with that light bit of conversation, acting like they're still best friends. Manipulative sneak.

But Lip gives up and decides to answer him anyway. There's no pretending this isn't happening anymore.

"I can't stop thinkin' about shit," Lip begins, "All this stuff I don't wanna think about—you know? Shit from a long time ago, when we were kids, shit with Karen, shit with Monica, shit with you…I don't wanna think about any of it. But it's like I can't stop. It's just constantly there."

Ian is listening. Lip can just make out his brother's familiar form in the dark.

"And I've been havin' these dreams," Lip continues, "You keep dyin' on me, Ian."

"I do?"

"Almost every night."

"Sorry 'bout that."

"And I've been so worried about you…Amanda's right. I've been obsessed."

"I noticed."

Lip sighs, "I'm probably half the reason you wanna go away. Eighty percent, even."

"Thirty-five," Ian replies drily, "Don't flatter yourself."

Lip swallows hard, almost tearing up again. It's been so long since Ian was nice to him.

"How many goddamn freak-outs have I had the past few months?" Lip adds, "The last couple of _days_?"

"You have been on a pretty impressive streak."

Lip hasn't known until now he still had any shame left to feel, but there it is.

Ian takes a pensive drag and prompts him, "So you can't do your work anymore because you can't concentrate? It's just the thoughts and the dreams and shit?"

Lip shakes his head.

"Every time I sit down to do some of my work," he says slowly, trying to figure out how to describe it, "I don't know what happens. I freeze up. And my heart starts goin' and I get sweaty and all those thoughts start comin' back only they get bigger and weirder and all messed up…"

Lip pauses. His breathing has gotten heavier just talking about this. He can hear his heart.

"Anyway," he continues, forcing himself to ignore this, "It started happenin' with one assignment, then another. Then they all just snowballed. And meanwhile, I was goin' fuckin' crazy."

"I don't think the drinking helped."

"No," Lip agrees reluctantly, "But what was I supposed to do? How the fuck else do you deal with your brain up and leavin' you? And now I'm Frank, and I've lost my mind, and I'm completely fucked."

Ian takes forever to respond. Two more drags before he offers his assessment: "I don't think you've lost your mind. Think you just need some help."

Lip snorts. "Same fuckin' thing."

"No. They put you on the shit they've got me on, then you know you've lost it. You're not anywhere close."

Lip focuses on his cigarette and tries make his mind blank. He doesn't want to think about how scared Ian must have been at first, facing the doctors and all that shit, how he only had Mickey there to help. Maybe some part of Ian had wanted his brother there too. He must have felt so alone.

"It's not that bad, you know," Ian says.

"What?"

"Therapy. I hate going, but some of it's all right." Ian laughs a little and adds, "Mickey thinks everything my therapist says is just great. He'd go with me every week if I let him."

Lip shrugs. "Mickey likes solvin' problems."

"So do you."

"I haven't had so great a track record lately. Or ever, I guess."

"But he's not wrong," Ian says, "Some of the things she's said did help."

"That's great, Ian, but I don't need any of that. I need to help myself."

"You got any idea how to do that?"

"I'll figure somethin' out," Lip mutters, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears.

Ian falls quiet and Lip simmers in spite. Even with all that therapy, all the drugs, Ian's still running from his problems, still keeping all these secrets and pushing everyone away. What the hell good has any of it done him? There's no such thing as help. Not for Ian, not for Lip, not for any of them. They're Gallaghers. You can't fucking fix that.

"You know what you were always the best at?"

Lip furrows his brow as his rumination is interrupted by this inane question.

"Working around the system," Ian answers himself, "You never played by the rules, and you could always find a way to win anyway. You remember what you used to say? The thing about the shortest distance?"

Lip smiles despite everything, having not thought about this favorite line in years.

He ashes his cigarette and proclaims, "The shortest distance between two points isn't any fuckin' line. It's movin' the two points closer together until they're the same fuckin' point."

"See?" Ian laughs, "Rules don't even matter in your world. They can throw anything at you, and you always figure out how to get exactly what you want."

Lip can't even manage a response to this. It's not like that anymore. The only way out of this school situation is through, and Lip's got no experience with that. And even if he did know how to buckle down and work hard, he hasn't got the ability to so much as get started. He hasn't got the ability to even make it through dinner at this point. It's all hopeless.

From the house he can hear voices raised, people still arguing. Or, who knows? Maybe they've moved on to drunken singing. At a Gallagher holiday, it's hard to tell the difference. Sometimes it's both one and the same.

Then Ian speaks, and the brittleness of his voice catches Lip's attention.

"When…when I tried to steal that helicopter," Ian says, "I had this crazy idea in my head. I still remember it."

Lip holds his breath and waits. Ian seems lost in the memory, but then he summons himself back and continues.

"Everybody was calling me Lip there, you know? I was Phillip Ronan Gallagher from the Southside of Chicago, Lip for short. Private Lip Gallagher…There was actually another Gallagher there, and he didn't do stupid crazy person things like I did, so he got to be 'Gallagher,' and I got to be 'Lip.' "

Ian gives an uncomfortable half-laugh. "And then for a while there, at the end, I got this idea, and I couldn't let go of it. I started to think somehow I'd actually turned into you. Not that I was likeyou. That I _was_ you."

Ian run a finger over the dashboard as he murmurs, "The two points became the same fucking point, I guess."

Lip's hands are shaking. He takes another pull on his cigarette as he listens.

"When I decided I couldn't do it anymore…When I decided I was out, and I'd just take that helicopter and go, I wasn't scared…"

Ian turns to face him and explains, "I wasn't scared 'cause I was Lip Gallagher, and rules don't apply to him. I could get away with anything."

Lip stares at his brother through the dark, desperately wishing to see his face to reassure himself that Ian is all right and really here with him right now, not still back there.

"But then it all went wrong," Ian recalls softly, "And I remembered I was me."

Ian takes one last drag and stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray. He sits back in his seat.

Lip blinks rapidly, trying to compose himself enough to respond to this confession.

"I wish I could've helped you," he manages to croak.

"There's no helping it."

"Then I wish I'd at least been there for you. I could've protected you."

"From what? Fate?"

"I don't know what I could've done, but I should've done it."

"If you don't even know, Lip, there's no answer. You know everything."

"I don't anymore."

"Don't say that," Ian tells him, "I have to know that anywhere I go, or anywhere you go—"

Ian puts his two index fingers together on the dashboard once more and Lip can hear him drag them apart. He's drawing a distance between the two points.

"—I _have_ to know that you're out there, same as ever. Same old genius."

"I was never a genius."

Lip is startled by Ian's agitation as he vehemently shakes his head.

"No," Ian says, "It's bad enough that I don't even know who I am anymore. I gotta know who you are. I gotta know that you're still who you always were. That Mickey's still who he always was. Fiona and Debbie and Carl and Liam…Even if I go away, even if whoever I was is gone for good…"

Ian pauses, struggling to articulate his thoughts from this mess of words.

"It's like…as long as I know you guys are out there still being everybody I knew… then I'm not really gone."

Lip stubs out his cigarette and feels weighted down with that same exhausted hopelessness.

"You haven't gone anywhere," Lip tells him, "And even if you do go wherever the hell you think you're gonna go, you're still you. I don't know how many times we all gotta tell you that you can't run away from yourself."

"I don't have to. The guy I was ran away from _me_."

"No, he didn't."

Ian throws himself back in his seat once more with frustration. Then he sets into brooding like he has always done when trying to work out a retort to some logic of Lip's he doesn't like.

Lip slides another cigarette from the pack and lights it, but Ian snaps his fingers at him, demanding to have it while he thinks. Lip rolls his eyes and hands it over. They might be here a while.

Lip tries to sit still and be patient, but he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts. So he drums his fingers on the steering wheel while he waits. Doing that kind of shit when Ian is trying to think has always driven him nuts.

"Stop it," Ian snaps.

"What?" Lip asks and keeps doing it.

"I'll crush your hand. You know I'm good for it."

"Fine, fine," Lip says, taking his hand from the steering wheel with a dramatic sigh.

Then Ian sits forward.

"If I didn't change then you didn't either," Ian says with great conviction, as if he's solved a riddle, "Twins are the same."

"Come on," Lip sneers, "Not that old shit."

"We're twins. You used to tell me that."

"Cause you were a dumb little kid who believed it! And I was an asshole who got a kick out of gettin' you to believe stupid crap."

"I dunno, Lip. Lots of other people used to say it about us too."

"Yeah, _Irish_ twins."

"Still twins."

"No _._ That was just commentary on our parents' low-class procreation habits."

"Still twins."

"Jesus. It doesn't work like that. Even for real twins."

"Bullshit. You're the one who told me that. You told me that if you died, I'd die. If you got hurt, I'd bleed. That's what you said, and you know everything."

"I don't know shit."

"Why? Because you lost your big genius mind?"

"Exactly."

"I lost _my_ mind. You think it's gone for good?"

"No," Lip sits up, "I don't believe that for a second."

Then he realizes the trap Ian has just walked him into.

"If mine came back," Ian says smugly, "then yours will too."

Lip slumps in his seat and surrenders. Even in the dark, he can tell that Ian is grinning. He has always been so delighted anytime he can catch Lip up in his own logic.

There just isn't any good way to argue it, though. If Lip says he has changed, then Ian can claim that about himself too. If Lip says he's lost his mind for good, then there's no way out of Ian making the case that he has too. And Lip doesn't believe that. Despite everything he convinced himself of today, when it comes down to it, Lip still believes in Ian. It's still there. Lip still believes that all of them have got a chance—Fiona, Ian, Carl and Debbie...Just not Lip.

But, then, what's the logic in that? Is Lip spectacularly more hopeless than the rest of them? The probability of that doesn't seem very likely.

All the shit Ian's dealt with? Fiona? If Lip still believes in them, and if Ian, after everything he said today out in the snow, still believes in Lip, then how the hell does Lip prove this hypothesis?

He can't. And if there isn't any hard evidence to support his theory that he is hopeless, then Lip's got no choice but to go with Occam's Razor: he's not hopeless; he's just scared. And probably a little bit lazy, if he wants to be completely honest.

" _Fuck_ ," Lip murmurs, bringing his hand to his head.

Ian must see this movement and assume Lip is touching the bandage on his temple because he says, "Sorry I kicked your ass."

"Eh," Lip says, reluctantly allowing himself to be drawn away from his revelation, "Don't worry about it."

"You're really out of shape."

"I know."

"Need to stop pissing people off if you can't hold your own in a fight anymore."

"I know."

"Anyway…sorry."

Lip smiles at Ian, still the same kid who never liked having to be the bad guy when they played.

"It make you feel better, at least?" Lip asks.

"A little."

"I'm still good for somethin'."

Lip helps himself to a second cigarette after all, and they smoke in silence for a bit. He marvels at finding this unexpected hope still intact, but also at having his old brain back, even if only momentarily. He can't recall the last time he worked through a string of logic like that, everything so clear and obvious. His head has been cloudy and crowded for months, a murky mess of useless junk. He didn't know he had any beautiful little eurekas still in him.

"The fuck am I gonna do?" Ian asks quietly.

Lip's excitement nosedives. They're still stuck with this reality. They've still got to face all these problems, even the stupid ones Ian insists on creating for himself. Ian still wants to run away. Ian still wants to blow everything he's got in his life to bits. Ian's still sitting here like a helpless moron, too scared to make a damn move either way.

Lip ashes his cigarette and says, "I can't tell you what to do."

"Come on, Lip. Help me."

That horrible hysterical laughter almost bubbles up from Lip's chest once more at these words, but he manages to contain it. He inhales deeply through his nose and focuses on helping instead telling. If he doesn't try to tell _,_ maybe he actually _can_ help.

"What do you want?" Lip asks, "It's as simple as that."

Ian doesn't answer, and Lip's frustration with him comes rushing back.

"Give it up already," he says, "You didn't get to have the exact life you dreamed about. You got gypped. It sucks. But big deal."

"It is a big deal," Ian says so softly he might not have even meant to say it out loud.

Lip's annoyance is tempered. He takes a pull off his cigarette and thinks about Private Gallagher, acting like such a weirdo in Basic Training that he didn't even get to be the 'Gallagher.' That had probably been a little part of Ian's original fantasy of all of it, having a military-style nickname. Ian probably always thought he'd be 'Gallagher' or 'Irish' or 'Red.' And instead he ended up as 'Lip.' How do you turn a dream into a nightmare quicker than that?

"You're right," Lip says, "It is a big deal. Bet it's hard to let that go."

He watches the little bit of orange glowing at the end of his cigarette and continues, "But you keep thinkin' that everything would be better if you'd gotten what you wanted, and I don't know if that's true. Maybe. But what if you got through Basic and everything fine, and they shipped you over to Kabul or wherever, drivin' a tank around and carryin' a rocket launcher, and then this shit hit you?"

"I know it could've been worse," Ian says tiredly, "Everything can always be worse. I know."

"Yeah. Sure. But say you never got hit with this shit. Just carried on with everything as planned, no bipolar, no nothing. That's no guarantee. Maybe you'd get your legs blown off or brain damage and PTSD. Or maybe none of that. Maybe you just woulda hated it. Maybe you woulda sucked at it."

"So, no matter what, my life would've been fucked up anyway?"

"The point is, you don't know _that_ life would've been better than this one. Maybe you get exactly what you wanted but it's not what you expected or you're not the person you thought you'd be once you got it. I can tell you firsthand—gettin' everything and then fuckin' it up doesn't feel so great either."

"At least you got to have it."

Lip holds his tongue but is incensed by this self-pity. He sees again that look that passed between Ian and Mickey out in the front yard tonight, that look that seemed so alien to Lip. It hurt to see that, to recognize that Ian doesn't need him at all. But it hurt worse when Lip understood why it was so difficult to even identify that look in the first place. Nobody has ever given Lip a look like that.

He hears the girls crying out to Ian along the roadside today, begging him to get back in. Two of them were Lip's ex-girlfriends, the other one Mickey's fucking ex-wife, but Ian was their first concern. Even the Gallaghers tonight, those siblings Ian says make him feel like shit? Lip saw the look in all their eyes, their pain at the very idea that Ian would want to leave them again. Lip knows exactly what they were feeling; he still feels it too.

But when Lip left for college, the biggest reaction anybody had was Debbie and Carl arguing for weeks over which one of them would get his room. That first night in the dorm, Lip sat on his bed listening to the guy next door assuring his mom over the phone that he'd be fine, that he wouldn't forget to eat, that he'd already made a couple of friends at orientation. Lip sat there all night trying to read a book and waiting for anyone to think to give him a call. His phone never rang once.

Ian's gotten to have a hell of a lot that Lip never did. Never will, probably. And Ian's so used to always being liked and loved that he can't even see that.

"You got two options," Lip says tersely, "Go or stay. Just pick one."

"It's not that easy."

"One or the other. Doesn't get any easier than that."

Ian sighs with frustration, which only annoys Lip further.

"Come on," Lip snaps, "Either you give a shit about everybody else or you don't. Pretty damn easy."

"It's not easy!" Ian shouts, "Why can't any of you understand how fucking hard this is?"

His voice breaks pitifully and he backs down.

He is quiet for a moment then says in as even a voice as he can manage, "I don't know how to make anybody understand."

Shame has replaced any aggravation Lip had in him. In all his anger with this dumb plan, he hasn't really stopped to consider how miserable his brother is. Ian saying earlier tonight that he hates himself—Lip hasn't forgotten that. He doesn't know if he ever will.

He listens to Ian breathing, just two feet away from him. Lip wants more than anything to reach out and pull Ian back, but he's afraid. He doesn't know if he can close a gap between them even that small anymore, and he's terrified of finding out how bad things are on the other side of this divide. All Ian has in the world are his loved ones, and if he's willing to give that up for a chance at no longer hating himself, it must be more awful than any of them can imagine.

Lip closes his eyes as he puts words to a terrible thought, "Are you gonna kill yourself if you stay here?"

"I don't know," Ian admits.

Lip winces. This wasn't the answer he was hoping for, but somehow the plainness of Ian's response makes it so much worse. Lip can't speak for a moment, his heart lodged in his throat.

It's not that Lip hasn't thought about this before, it's not like this possibility hasn't been scaring him to death for months, driving him past the edge of sanity at points. But all this time it was only a threat if Ian fell into one of those obvious depressive funks, or something. Here he is now, though, perfectly functional and lucid, successfully medicated and balanced to all appearances. It's like running to switch on the lights only to find that the Boogeyman really is under your bed.

Lip nods several times, trying to keep himself together. He swallows as best he can.

"And bein' here makes that worse?" He asks.

"I feel bad all the time, Lip."

Lip has to swallow hard again before he asks, "When do you feel good?"

"Only when I forget."

Lip smokes and goes over this grim intel he has gathered. No matter how many ways he runs the data, however, he keeps hitting on the same result: Ian's wellbeing has got to take priority over everything else. Lip doesn't want Ian to go; he knows this. The idea of him alone down there is alarming. And the odds that this is gonna buy Ian any kind of happiness seem piss-poor. But Lip also knows, much as it kills him, that he can't try to game this for what he thinks is best. Because if it isn't best, if it turns out Lip was wrong and whatever warning bells were going off in Ian's head telling him to get far the fuck away from here were justified…Lip would never forgive himself.

This has got to be Ian's decision, and that terrifies Lip. But Ian's the only one who can sort and weigh all these pieces of his heart, write his equations from that, solve for x. Ian's always sucked at math, though.

Helping, not telling. That's what Lip's supposed to be doing right now. He can't grab the pencil from Ian and figure the numbers for him, not this time. But Lip's always sucked at knowing any other way to help.

Lip grits his teeth and pries loose his grip on that pencil.

"If gettin' out of here is what you have to do to keep goin'," Lip says reluctantly, "then you should do it."

Lip can tell Ian is startled to hear this. There's a pause before Ian rushes to explain his reasoning, as if he's worried Lip's going to take back his advice.

"I know it's not gonna make me some other person or whatever," Ian says, "I know it's not gonna give me back what I had. But I just…what if it's easier?"

"It might be. Won't know until you find out."

"I gotta change something."

"Well," Lip says, "This would definitely change somethin'. Almost all of your somethin's, really."

Ian goes quiet at this, and Lip smirks to himself. Ian has never liked having to deal with the downsides of his big plans. He loves all the addition, wholly ignores the subtraction. But you can't run numbers like that.

"What's holdin' you up?" Lip nudges him, "What's keepin' you from tellin' us all to go fuck ourselves and packin' up your U-Haul?"

"I'm not…What if I do all of this, and it just makes everything worse?"

Lip stares into the snow accumulated on the hood of the van and has a sudden vision of Ian standing in a cornfield with a gun. He shakes that image away and sees instead blood splattered across the wall of neat new tiles in the Milkoviches' bathroom.

He shakes that image away too and tries only to see the snow, willing his heart to slow back down again. Whatever option Ian chooses here, there are no guarantees. They both want one, some kind of contract and a warranty, but there just isn't any fail-safe solution to a problem like this. It's like trying to separate Ian from his shadow.

"You guys would let me come back, right?" Ian asks in a tiny voice.

"You know we would," Lip sighs, pushing the hair back from his forehead in agitation, "Jesus. It's not really us you gotta worry about givin' up here."

Ian takes another shaky breath and stubs out his cigarette. Lip takes his last drag then does the same. Somehow, the deciding factor has come down to Mickey Milkovich. Of course. Every machination Lip has attempted has failed to turn that guy into a remainder. There's no solving for x without Ian's y.

"You in love with him?" Lip asks.

"You want me to say no."

"This isn't about what I want. This is about you."

"But you hate him."

"What do you care? And for the record, I happen to have come to the conclusion that it's smarter to have Milkoviches on your side than as your enemies. You figured that out a lot quicker than I did. I'll give you points for that."

"You think he makes me worse. You said he fucks me up. You said he ruins me."

"I was wrong," Lip replies, tripping a little on this unfamiliar phrase.

"Liar."

"I was rootin' for _him_ in there, you know."

"That's just 'cause you wanted me to stay."

"No," Lip shakes his head, "I was rootin' for him 'cause he was actually fightin'. I was watchin' him, and I kept thinkin' 'that's who I'm puttin' my money on here.' But I kept lookin' at you and thinkin' 'who's _this_ guy?' The kid I knew used to be a fighter too."

"I'm _trying_ to fight. That's what this is! If I don't change something, Lip, I don't know what I'm gonna do."

"Okay, okay," Lip assures him, "I know."

Lip tries to think this through, begging his brain to work right again, at least for just this one time. Then he pauses before he speaks, putting his words together more carefully than he has ever done.

"I just wonder," Lip says, "If you're not puttin' a lot of energy into fightin' the wrong things. Seems to me you're gonna have to deal with the exact same shit there as you do here. You're gonna have to battle those demons no matter what until they're gone."

"I know that."

"Sure. And maybe it _will_ be an easier fight there without all this baggage around. I don't blame you. I know you gotta be tired and lookin' for any way out. But I think you're so tired you can't even see straight at this point."

"This isn't just some manic—"

"I know that. I'm not sayin' that. I'm sayin' you're fuckin' tired from takin' on everything at once all the time. Maybe if you stopped fightin' for one damn second, you'd see some shit around here you could change. But if you go down there, I just worry you're settin' yourself up with nobody to tag team with, nobody to let you get a breather in this fight. That doesn't seem to give you too good a chance there. And I think you gotta ask yourself: is it more important to fight for total control over every single thing in your life or for the people who make your life worth livin' at all?"

Lip sits back after this little speech and forces himself to shut up. No more telling. No more trying to coerce people into doing what he thinks they should do. The family fixer is officially retired.

"I do," Ian says quietly.

"You do what?"

"Love him."

"Then why the fuck are you sittin' here with me?"

Ian goes very still. His breathing grows more shallow and a little uneven. According to _Lip Gallagher's Guide to Interpreting Your Dipshit Brother's Top-Secret Emotions by the Sound of His Breathing: A Study Based on 18 Years of Empirical Research_ (Chicago Polytechnic Press, 2014), Ian is on the verge of tears again.

"I don't want to ruin his life," Ian insists tremulously.

"So you'd rather ruin yours? The guy is tellin' you to go ahead and ruin his life all you want. For some crazy fuckin' reason, he thinks it's worth it."

Ian wipes his eyes with his palms and says, "I'm _not_ worth it."

"Okay, fine. You're terrible. Clearly, you're the worst thing that ever happened to anybody. But is _he_ worth it?"

Ian starts shaking and snuffling and Lip realizes with bemusement that Ian is trying with all his might not to cry in front of him. Stubborn, stupid, ridiculous kid.

"Hey, man," Lip says, "I just bawled my eyes out stone sober at Thanksgiving dinner and lost it on my kid sister. You don't have to worry about bein' cool for me."

Ian chokes out a laugh and then snuffles a bit more freely.

Lip folds his arms and asks, "So, Mickey Fuckin' Milkovich really makes you happy? Even in that shithole? Even when you're so fuckin' angry about how your life turned out? He actually makes you happy?"

"Yeah," Ian sniffles, "He pisses me off, and he makes me feel like shit sometimes, and he drives me crazy, but…"

"But?"

"Sometimes…sometimes when he's not worrying so much…When it's just him and me and none of this other shit…" Ian drags his sleeve across his eyes and says, "When I'm with him I forget."

Lip nods solemnly. That solves it. Mickey wins.

But Ian continues, "God, I'm so proud of him, Lip. He's gonna do so good with that business. I know it."

"You wanna be here to see that happen?"

Ian doesn't answer this question. Instead he just muses, "He's so fucking smart. He picks up everything like it's nothing…He can do anything…"

Ian turns to him and says fervently, "When he didn't like the doctors at the clinic? When he didn't think they were doing as much as they could? Giving me enough attention? He got me in at the best place in the whole city."

"Thought that was Lishman who did that."

"It was Mickey who got him to do it. I don't even know what he said to him. I haven't had to pay a goddamn bill there yet."

Lip processes this new information, adding it to everything else he's learned today was never true about the world. Then he shakes his head. "You think you're gonna be able to just buy someone like that off a shelf down in Centralia?"

"He doesn't deserve me. Maybe who I used to be, but not…"

"Doesn't he deserve to get what he wants? Even if he's got shit taste? Remember that time we all talked Fiona into splurgin' on that dress she couldn't stop goin' on about, then she brought it home and looked like a hooker in it? We didn't tell her that. Cause it made her happy, and that's all that mattered."

Lip is hoping to make Ian laugh again, knock him loose from this obsessive self-loathing—he and Ian used to crack up every time Fiona left the house in that get-up, strutting with her head high like she was the second coming of Beyoncé.

But Ian doesn't laugh. He just falls quiet.

And Lip feels exhausted. Every bit of today, of the last few weeks and months, the past nineteen years, is catching up with him.

"Who the fuck are we to decide what should make anybody else happy?" Lip sighs, "Isn't that what you were tryin' to tell me by kickin' the crap out of me today? Or did I miss the point?"

Ian is still sitting here, not talking, not moving, just frozen in place by the decision set out before him.

The family fixer's apparently got one last job to take on before he can retire. And this is a bit of telling Lip never thought he'd see himself do.

"You know," he says, "There's one thing I always did find kinda impressive about the Milkoviches. They know what they want, and they don't really second-guess that. They just go for it. You think Mickey ever had second thoughts about beatin' me up all those times in school? No. He saw an ass that needed kickin,' and he went for it. So, maybe you should try bein' more like them," Lip pushes, "If you got somethin' in this shitty world that still makes you happy, then fuckin' take it. Don't worry about what should've been or what might happen. Take it, and don't look back."

Ian still isn't moving, so Lip leans across the gearshift, grabs him by the shoulders and shakes him.

"Don't be a Gallagher," Lip commands, "Don't fuck everything up."

He can see Ian's eyes clearly now in the moonlight, wide and frightened. He could be five years old again.

Lip drops his hands in frustration, "Christ, Ian. When have you ever been a coward? Figure out what matters the most to you and fuckin' _fight_ for it!"

And Ian is out of the van. He doesn't even bother to close the door as he drops down to the snow and takes off down the alley.

* * *

 

Lip sits alone in the dark and puts his head back.

"And I remembered I was me," he murmurs to the empty van.

Behind him, the usual chaos is still pouring down in the Gallagher house, Fiona trying as always to bail out enough of that rain to keep them afloat for another night. And Fiona has only ever had her own two hands to cup together, pumps and buckets drifting by just out of reach. But as long as she doesn't stop trying, somehow it manages not to sink.

A few blocks away, Ian is trying to keep his marriage from going down in that same storm, even though he drilled the holes in the boat himself. He's spent his whole life chasing after one white whale after another, even as each turned out to be a school of minnows slipping between his fingers. Now there's no more whales, not so much as a fish left to catch, as far as his tired eyes can see. But as long as he doesn't stop trying, he might at least still make it to safe harbor.

_Trying_. Ian and Fiona have both always had to do so much more trying than Lip. He steered his speedboat with one little finger, never considering that someday the motor might crap out. Now he's adrift on the same choppy sea without even the gumption to shoot up a flare.

Water, water everywhere, nor any fuckin' drop to drink…

Lip jolts as a rush of cold air hits him. Fiona is climbing into the passenger seat.

"I just need five minutes," she mutters, "Five minutes not in that house…"

"Okay," he says uncertainly.

"When does anything ever stop goin' wrong? Is it just never gonna let up? 'Cause we are fuckin' due for a break. Oh, we are long, long, overdue."

"I don't kno—"

"And you!" She raises her voice, turning to him, "What the hell, Lip?"

"I—"

"No," she cuts him off and puts up her hand to silence him, "I don't even wanna know. I do not need to find out anymore shit today."

Lip closes his mouth and offers himself up to whatever she needs to say.

"All I need to know," Fiona says steadily, "Is that you're gonna fix it. Whatever stupid mess you've made now, you _have_ to fix it. I don't care what kinda scam or magic you gotta work; you figure it out."

She shakes her head and stares out her window, lost in frustrated thought.

They sit in silence for a while, and Lip puzzles over the crux of the matter. He may not be hopeless, and he may only be scared, but he is scared with just cause. It's not only the schoolwork, which is daunting enough. It's also the other stuff, the stuff that's all him. And that's a mess of a problem, a kind he's never encountered before. He doesn't know if he's got it in him to learn this strange new math. Lip wasn't built for trying.

"Is it the drinkin'?" Fiona asks abruptly, "Cause you're doin' pretty good today. And this was a hell of a day. Think you're ready to go back in tomorrow, get yourself another twenty-four hour chip."

The illogic of this startles Lip from his train of thought. "Wait? They let you start over just like that?"

Fiona nods and Lip is appalled.

"Isn't there a waiting period or somethin'?" he asks, "Make sure you're serious this time? How many times they gonna welcome you back with another first day chip?"

"As many times as you show up and say you wanna start again."

"That's ridiculous! So some idiots can just rack up ten, twenty, _thirty_ first day AA tokens, and that's not supposed to be a hint that they're lost causes?"

"I don't know," Fiona sighs as she is stuck once more defending this stuff in the face of his scorn, "At least they're tryin'."

This statement strikes Lip mute. He slowly closes his mouth, disengages his outrage, and sits back, feeling a little dazed.

"Anyway, you better figure it out," Fiona says, "Givin' up on school is not an option. Not even if you do lose your scholarship. Then you get some loans or go part-time or take your classes over at Daley or…or somethin'…They _cannot_ see you fail at this. And I can't either."

She massages her temple and adds, "You think you're fucked? Come cry about that to me when you're twenty-three and completely out of chances."

Then she sits up, as if just noticing something. "Where's Ian?"

Lip swallows and finds his voice again. "Went home."

Her sigh of relief is palpable. "Good."

"Yeah," he agrees, but can't help but ache as the emptiness hits. "I hate losin' him, though. Hate losin' all of you. Feels like that's happenin' more and more."

"How do you think I feel? You're all goin' off, havin' your own lives, and I just stay here, doin' the same thing, nothin' changin' til another one of you leaves. What's gonna be left for me when I lose you all?"

"Some Prince Charming with a douchey tattoo. Long as you keep it tight."

"Sure that'll work out real great. Always does."

The emptiness aches a little more keenly, threatening to become cavernous. Lip sees Fiona growing middle aged and alone in the house, as more and more rooms go vacant. He's still never managed to land on any solution for her, but there's got to be another way to look at it, at least. He pokes around his brain tentatively, testing if it might wake up for another go.

"Maybe," he begins and then becomes more confident as the idea comes together in his mind, "It's not that we're losin' each other. But maybe we're just expandin' our territory, you know? Stakin' more claims out there for the Gallagher clan. Manifest destiny."

"So, where does that leave me? At home, keepin' the fires burnin'?"

"You're not _at_ home. Home's you. It's always been you."

Lip interprets her silence as skepticism, but then Fiona sniffles.

"It's true," he tells her, "Can you imagine how fucked-up we'd _really_ be if we hadn't had you?"

She laughs, and Lip feels more whole again, hearing it. The emptiness scabs over some.

"Where's _my_ home, then?" Fiona asks, challenging this sentimental logic.

"It's us."

"Oh, God," she sniffles again, "Ian really did a number on your head today."

But Lip isn't paying attention to her now. He's thinking about points and distance and shifting positions, if a person changing changes you, what happens when points overlap or move apart…

"You're doin' your mad scientist mutterin'," Fiona comments, "Haven't heard that in a while."

"Just somethin' Ian and I were talkin' about," Lip says, still distracted by the puzzle, "Movin' some points around doesn't change the points, only their position."

"Oh."

Lip laughs and gives up trying to explain it the way he sees it in his head.

"We don't all have to be in the same place all the time to still have 'home,'" he says instead, "We'll still be us. You're not gonna stop bein' you, are you?"

"Not anytime soon."

"I'm sure as fuck not really changin'."

"I think you have," she says warmly, "Think you're growin' up a lot."

"Not doin' such a great job at it."

"Who does?"

Lip abandons his attempt to hammer down their stars into a constellation that makes sense, and they both sit for a while, their minds in separate places. Lip realizes at some point that he's been staring out at the yard and the alley, and not really seeing any of it. He tries to see it now, though, and finds that it is strangely beautiful, the heavy blanket of snow concealing all the garbage, all the ugly bits. Without knowing any better, this could pass for a pretty nice part of the world.

"I wanna try." Lip hears the statement come out of his mouth before he comprehends that he has said them. Then he corrects himself, "I wanna _learn_ how to try. Get it right. I don't wanna give up on this."

"Well," Fiona says after a pause, "That's all I want."

Lip remembers what Mickey said back near Racine, and repeats that now, "Anything worth havin' is worth tryin' for, right?"

She laughs. "When did you get so corny?"

Lip smiles in agreement, but something compels him to go for broke anyway. He'll build a whole damn corn palace.

"Don't think I'm forgettin' about you," he says, "You know how those football players always sign these 30 million dollar contracts and the first thing the guy does is get his grandma out of the ghetto, set her up in a mansion? Thank her for raisin' him?"

"Are you callin' me your ghetto _grandma_? I don't know how I feel about that."

"Don't worry about it. Just start makin' a list of all the things you wanna do when you get out of here. No responsibilities when you get your mansion."

"Mansion," Fiona scoffs with amusement, "I'd settle for gettin' a window unit for my bedroom some summer. Pull that off, and we'll call it even."

"Come on," he urges, needing to hear her dream, even just a little.

But she seems almost frightened by his enthusiasm.

"Don't count your checks before they're cashed, all right?" she tells him, "You still gotta worry 'bout gettin' through those classes first."

"Don't _spend_ your checks before they're cashed," Lip can't stop himself from correcting, "You count your _eggs_ before they're hatched."

"Yeah, but don't you go doin' either of those. You're the one who's always keepin' our expectations realistic here. We need that."

Lip exhales. He lets his momentary dalliance with dreaming big float away like a balloon.

"Well, I'll get you out somehow," he vows, "Don't worry."

"I don't care," Fiona argues, "Gettin' out is not what I worry about. All I want is for you guys to be okay and relatively happy. If I could just have that…If I could go to sleep every night knowin' that I got that? Then I don't give a shit if I never go more than ten blocks from this dump."

"You gotta want somethin' more than that."

"No, I don't. And I know that's stupid to you, but—"

"It's not stupid."

Lip looks at his sister's silhouette, her posture that is never ever just fully relaxed, all the mess in the house waiting right over her shoulder like always. This is her life's work.

"Listen," he offers instead, "Even if I fucked this up too much. I'm still gonna find a way to help. If it means comin' back here and gettin' a job that pays the bills, I'll do it. I'm gonna help you. I promise."

"I just need you to help yourself, Lip. That's all I need you to do. But you have to do it."

"I will."

Her tone shifts slightly. "You know what else you _could_ do, though?"

"What?"

"How 'bout helpin' me with those dishes? I don't know how I always got stuck with that job."

Lip smiles. "Think I can manage that."

He climbs down out of the driver's seat and meets her on the other side of the van.

As they walk back to the house, Fiona says, "And here I thought all these years you had some medical issue that kept you from bein' able to wash dishes."

"Yeah, it's called 'Smart Enough to Get Outta Doin' It Disorder.' It's a serious condition."

"Well, I'm glad to see you're finally cured."

"It's temporary," he assures her as they go back into the house, "Only temporary."

* * *

 

Lip washes the dishes while Fiona dries and they both try not to listen to Carl talking to his girlfriend on the phone. He's in his room, but he's got the door open and the sound has always carried down the stairwell a little too clearly.

"I can't believe you didn't even have to pee on the stick," he says, "Periods are fucking awesome."

"I'm gettin' him sterilized first thing in the morning," Fiona declares and turns the faucet up higher to try and drown him out.

Amanda comes racing into the kitchen, shrieking as Liam chases her with a Nerf bat. He corners her behind the kitchen table and begins whacking her. She's laughing and trying to ward off the blows as she spots Lip.

"You're back!" she says, pausing just in time to get smacked in the face.

"Liam!" Fiona scolds, "We play nice in this house."

Liam roars like a dinosaur and smacks Amanda again, knocking her glasses askew.

"Hey!" Lip snaps in his dad voice, "Cool it!"

Liam lowers the bat and shouts at the both of them, "You're no fun!"

"I'm sorry," Fiona says, "Did you say you don't want dessert and you wanna go to bed early? Is that what you just said?"

Lip struggles not to break his stern expression as Liam trudges out of the kitchen, dragging his bat behind him.

"Gotten strict in your old age," he remarks.

"You're all determined to get me arrested for murder before this day is over."

From the living room, someone start pounding out _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ on the piano.

"And Frank's hit the happy entertainer phase of his all-day bender," Fiona sighs, "Right on time."

"I can dry the dishes," Amanda volunteers, "Why don't you go sit down?"

Fiona slaps the dishtowel into Amanda's hand without a word and trudges out to the living room looking remarkably like Liam.

"How you doing?" Amanda asks as she takes over drying.

"Stress level's back to about a six. Embarrassment's at ten."

"I would've come out but…Fiona told us to let Ian handle it. I wasn't about to argue with her."

Lip nods and hands her a glass to dry. "How bad did I scare the kids?"

"I really don't think they scare that easy at this point."

He allows himself a smirk, but focuses on scrubbing the bottom of the roasting pan where all the turkey juices have caramelized and hardened. There are years of the crud built up, but perhaps if he does it right, he can loosen it off.

Amanda starts putting away the clean glasses while she waits for the pan to be ready. Efficiency incarnate.

Then Lip asks out of nowhere, "What's your diagnosis?"

He turns his head from her slightly as he hears how blunt and odd the question sounds.

Amanda sets down off her tiptoes and lowers her arm from the cabinet.

"You said a couple times you were goin' to see someone," Lip explains, keeping his eyes fixed on the pan, "I never asked what for."

"Oh. Mostly to bitch about my parents. About school. You." Amanda replies, turning her attention back to the cabinet.

"Yeah, but, you got a label, right? Somethin' they put on your insurance forms?"

" _Oh_ ," she says as she takes it upon herself to start removing a row of larger glasses that are stacked unsteadily atop a row of smaller ones, "Inattentive ADD. I'm an Adderall kid from way back. With a smattering of obsessive-compulsive tendencies. Shocker."

Lip sets the sponge down and looks at her. He gestures around the room, "OCD and all our mess? How're you not losin' it?"

"Oh, no, I love it," she gushes and scrunches up her nose with pleasure, "I feel so needed!"

"Jesus," he mutters and returns to his scrubbing.

Amanda resumes her work on the cabinet, putting the larger glasses back and stacking the smaller ones neatly on top of those.

Lip doubles up the sponge on its rougher side and scrapes harder at the crud. He edges a little closer toward what he really wants to ask.

"Sorry if that was too personal a question," he says, buying time to build up his nerve. His heart has started thumping a little faster.

"It's no big deal," she says over her shoulder as she continues arranging, "I'm not embarrassed. _Everybody_ 's got something. Anyone who doesn't suspect they have something up there they need to fix is either dealing with some massive denial or living among us as a full-blown clinical psychopath."

Lip tries to smile at this, but can't ignore his heart enough to do it. Instead he scrubs still harder, like he's trying to push the pan through the bottom of the sink. Distracted by the force this activity requires, he finds the words can sort of just slip out.

"You know how you wanted me to make that appointment?"

"Oh my God," Amanda gasps happily, spinning from the cabinet to face him, "You're really going to go! Finally! God…I thought I was going to have to knock you out with a roofie and physically drag you."

"Well, you might, uh, have to," he says. Her excitement is not making him any less uneasy about this.

"Sure," she responds eagerly as she pulls the pan from his hands and begins drying it, "No problem at all. I'll go with you to set up the appointment. I can do all the talking, tell them everything they need to know. As long as you're there to sign everything, that's fine. And then when the time comes, I can even go in with you to the session. Moral support is always good, especially since you're so freaked out about it. You can tell me ahead of time what you want to say and I can prompt you if, you know, if you go blank or get nervous. And if you want, I can even see if Fiona wants to come. If that would help you out to have her there, I'm sure I can talk to her and set it—"

"No!"

They both go still, Lip just as startled as Amanda, hearing that come out so much louder than he meant it to.

"Right," Amanda says shakily, "You're right. I'm sorry. I shouldn't—it's not my place. I always go overboard…"

She turns back to the counter hastily and busies herself with an open bag of rolls, tying them back up. Then she scoops up an empty can of cranberry sauce and moves to throw it away.

"No," Lip says again, much more softly this time.

She pauses and looks up at him. He can suddenly picture quite easily what she must have looked like as a child.

"It's nice that you wanna help," he says carefully, "I _like_ that you like to help. I just…I have to do this myself."

"But you said—"

"I said I might need you to make sure I go. Make sure I don't talk myself out of it. Maybe walk down there with me so I don't go chickenshit at the last minute, decide not to go in. But that's it. The rest I gotta do. I just need you to—"

"Moral support," she says, the smile returning to her face, "I can do that."

"That's _it_ ," he tells her cautiously.

She nods. "That's it."

Lip returns to the sink and the privacy of having his back to her. He allows himself a moment to just breathe, feel his heart slowing back to normal. Then he reaches for the next dirty serving dish.

As he relaxes and lets his attention settle on the simple task of washing the bowl, Amanda hops up and takes a seat on the counter beside the sink. She cocks her head to one side and smiles as she watches him work.

"What're you doin'?" he asks, setting the clean bowl into the drainer and reaching for the next one.

"Moral support," she replies.

He continues to eye her as he submerges the new bowl.

"Wash that bowl," she cheers, "You can do it, Tiger!"

He flicks some water at her and is pleased by her shriek.

But Amanda is not so easily bowed. She swings her legs and tells him about how she did three years on the pom squad in high school, all the backdoor political shenanigans she engineered the year that she was co-captain, how she was this close to successfully petitioning to have the school colors changed because yellow is not flattering on anyone…

She trails off at some point, and Lip looks up.

"Why'd you stop?" He asks.

"I've just never seen you smiling so much. Got me kind of worried."

He blushes slightly, realizing he _has_ been smiling like an idiot through all her stories.

"Is it possible you're actually listening to what I'm saying?" She asks, "And enjoying it?"

"Think I might be concussed," he replies, returning his attention to the dishes.

"Oh, that's probably it."

When she doesn't resume her monologue, though, he looks back up.

"You're not gonna keep goin'?"

Amanda smiles and maybe blushes too. He's never seen her blush.

"Well," she continues, "I knew if I wanted to do this, I had to get both the PTA and the Booster Club on my side, but that's like mixing oil and water. Cats and dogs. Montagues and Capulets. Social scientists and humanists. But I also knew that the one thing that brings all parents together is local news coverage of their kids' sports…"

That idiotic smile returns as Lip works. It's almost kind of cozy, being here, doing this, listening to her. He's not sure what this is, if this is friendship or moral support or just Amanda being Amanda. God knows he doesn't understand any of those things. But right now in this moment, Lip wouldn't care if he never ran out of dishes to wash.

* * *

 

Frank's moved on to playing _What Shall We Do with the Drunken Sailor_ over and over again by the time Debbie announces that everyone is finally allowed to cut into the desserts. She's arranged them in an elaborate spread complete with plates stacked under some of the pie dishes and cakes to raise them to varying heights, and she's put out a random bowl of apples and some fake leaves for staging. She snaps one final picture with her phone then steps back as Fiona, Lip, Amanda, and Liam descend.

"I told Sheila she should start a cooking blog," Debbie remarks to no one in particular, "If I made stuff like this everyday I would."

"Start makin' stuff like this everyday, and you could put Weber's out of business," Fiona says, taking a slice of an elaborate apple pie that must be eight inches tall.

Lip gets a piece of carrot cake and, not wanting to revisit the cartoon turkeys anytime soon, takes a spot on the couch. Monica is awake now, but she's just sitting there on the other end gazing into nothing. Lip recognizes that new med look, the behavior. They've all seen this present then suddenly asleep then half-awake and out of it business so many times with her before.

He ignores her for a couple bites, but then his resolve crumbles.

"Want me to get ya some dessert?" He asks, though he keeps his eyes carefully on his cake.

There's a delay before she glances around, as if trying to find the source of this question. Then she lands on him.

"Oh, Lip," she says, "No. No, I don't want anything."

He shrugs and takes another bite.

"Thanks for asking, though," Monica continues on in an absentminded voice, "You were always such a nice kid."

"Think you're mixin' me up with someone else," he sniffs.

He shouldn't be surprised by this bullshit. Monica is a crackpot, and a self-centered one at that. After all these years, he shouldn't have any expectation that she could correctly state even the simplest fact about him. And one thing everybody knows is that Lip isn't, and never has been, _nice_.

"No," Monica replies, her voice still dreamy and distant, "You were a sweet boy. I remember when Ian was born, I was so worried you'd resent him—you know how kids do? But you didn't. You just loved him…You were always such a good big brother."

Lip chokes and turns to look at her as he coughs. He searches her expressionless face, waiting for something more, something to provide confirmation of this statement, some backup, some proof...

But Monica is done talking. She's drifted back to that Twilight Zone place once more.

Lip swallows the cake, though it now feels like a fistful of clay going down his throat.

_You were always such a good brother._ What if he just allowed himself to believe that for once Monica said something true, got a fact right about one of her kids? Lip cannot recall her ever having given him a gift—not a birthday present or a Christmas present, certainly never a graduation present—but what if she's given him this? What if this belief is his to keep?

He clutches that puppy tight. He doesn't want to give it back.

A wave of cold rushes into the room as Ian and Mickey come through the front door, closing it with great difficulty behind them. Mickey starts stomping the snow out of his boots, but Ian pauses and looks at all of them awkwardly as they stare back at him.

He's got Yevgeny on his hip, and he hitches him up higher, even though it doesn't seem necessary. Trust Ian to find reassurance in a nine-month-old.

"I forgot my coat," Ian explains. Then he supplements this flimsiness with, "And we didn't want to miss Debbie's desserts."

"Yeah, and Svet and Mandy said they needed a fuckin' break from us," Mickey adds as he finishes with his boots.

Everyone just continues staring at them while Frank plays on obliviously. Ian and Mickey both appear a little red around the eyes and raw about the mouth. All the meaning is in them standing here, though. Together.

"Well, come on in, then," Fiona says finally, "We got plenty."

Then tension breaks and the room becomes bustling again as Ian and Mickey integrate, get handed plates and coffee. Lip finds himself observing Debbie, though. She is watching the two of them with an expression of pure relief and delight. Cynicism hasn't swallowed her up just yet. Maybe they'll be lucky and get another year or so before that happens.

Debbie starts over-explaining about each of the desserts to her new testers, telling them all the different twists and little touches each includes ("There's a little bit of Meyer lemon in this one, to give it some kick? And, oh, try these—they've got Anise seed in them. You know what that is?"). Ian and Mickey, god bless 'em, are a patiently polite audience, nodding as if either of them has any idea what she's talking about.

As she babbles, Carl clomps downstairs and stops cold at the sight of the Prodigal Son and Son-in-Law's return. Then he beams with that same relief and runs over to punch Mickey in the arm.

Ian gives Carl an apologetic smile, but Carl just shakes his head at him.

"Fucking playing everybody," Carl mutters, shoving a dessert bar into his mouth then almost immediately spitting it into his hand, "What the hell's in this?"

Amanda is on the floor eating pie with Liam who seems thrilled to have so much attention. Lip smiles, watching her converse about the collection of toy cars Liam shows off to her between bites.

Lip's gaze travels to Fiona who is slumped in the armchair with her pie in her lap and a mug of coffee in her hands. She gives him a tired smile over the rim.

He considers finishing his cake, but it's a lot of cake and he's not really hungry. Instead he sets it down and goes to fetch a cup of coffee.

When Lip returns, Carl and Debbie have monopolized Mickey at the dining room table, pelting him with questions and news about happenings they've apparently been storing up all this time he's been gone.

Ian is just about to take a seat on the couch with Yevgeny. Lip sits down beside them.

"Who's this little guy?" Monica asks, coming to life at the sight of Yevgeny, as if she hadn't even noticed he was here before at dinner. It's the most animated she has looked, making big eyes and a goofy smile at the baby.

Lip waits to see if Ian is going to take Yevgeny away and sit somewhere else, avoid Monica's nonsense. Lip wouldn't blame him.

Ian doesn't, though. He smiles at the kid and tells Monica, "This is Yev."

"Well, Hi, Yev," Monica coos and tickles him under the chin, getting him to giggle, "Who do you belong to, huh? Are you the little man who belongs to himself?"

"He's my stepson."

Monica's face lights up even brighter. "I didn't know Manny had a kid! You never told me that."

"Mickey," Lip corrects her.

"Aw, Ian," Monica sighs, "You always wanted to be a daddy."

Ian just continues to smile at Yevgeny.

"Can I hold him?" Monica asks, "I wanna hold my grandson."

Lip starts to correct her again and tell her Yevgeny is not her grandson, but realizes that she's actually right. And Yevgeny is Lip's nephew too. Lip has a nephew. This is dumbfounding information.

Ian hesitates, the smile dropping off his face. But he gives in.

"Guess then I could eat," he says and gingerly allows Monica to take him.

"Come here, Yevy," Monica coos, settling the sleepy kid in her arms, "I miss babies. I love babies."

Ian watches apprehensively, like a mother cat ready to pounce.

But Monica just cuddles Yevgeny. She laughs and says to herself, "I'm a grandma. Hope I'm a hot grandma."

Relaxing a little, Ian looks over at the plate of carrot cake on the coffee table and asks, "Whose is that?"

"That's mine," Lip says, "You want it?"

"It looks good."

"It is." Lip hands him the plate and fork.

Ian takes a bite and wolfs down another.

"Debs," he calls over to the table, "This is really good!"

"I know," she calls back, annoyed at the interruption, and swiftly returns her attention to Mickey. "Aren't title loans a really bad idea, though?"

"Bad if you're gettin' one," Mickey replies, "Not if you're givin' one."

Lip sips his coffee while Ian eats and Monica holds Yevgeny, swaying him gently.

"How's the club?" She asks Ian eventually, "Is Wojtek still riding everybody's asses?"

"Don't work there anymore."

"You don't? It was so much fun!"

Ian shrugs and scrapes up a blob of frosting. "Didn't have time."

"Little guy keeps you busy, huh? Kids are so much work."

Both brothers let this statement pass without comment.

"Pretty busy with my other job too," Ian says, "And I'm starting classes in January."

"You going to school?"

"Uh-huh." Ian takes another bite of cake and tells her, "Thinking about becoming a paramedic."

Lip rolls his head back and glares at the ceiling. He thinks about Ian blowing him off when Lip suggested this very thing, how disdainfully Ian discarded all that research Lip had gathered for him. Lip can still see the brochures strewn across the floor of the dorm room. This is so _Ian_.

"You'd be so good at that!" Monica gasps, "Driving an ambulance? Saving everybody's lives?"

"It's just an idea," Ian murmurs and shovels in another mouthful of cake.

"Gosh, that's such a lotta responsibility. I'd never be able to do something like that. Gosh. But you like responsibility. You're so much like Clayton."

Lip resumes drinking his coffee, waiting for Ian to respond to this. But he doesn't. Ian just eats his cake.

"I thought somebody said you were leaving?" Monica says, some parts of her foggy brain aligning momentarily.

"Not right now," Ian replies colorlessly, "Mickey's starting a new business, and it's not a good time. But we might go somewhere together later. See what's out there."

Lip gives him a curious look, but Ian acts like he doesn't notice.

"That's good," Monica says and tries to resettle Yevgeny who has started to fuss, "There's so much out there. Parties, interesting people, so many things to try…"

Ian hands the plate back to Lip and takes the baby from her. Back in the familiarity of Ian's lap, Yevgeny immediately calms. Ian strokes him while Monica babbles on about all the things that are out there in the world.

"It's like you get to have a whole different life, anytime you want," she finishes, smiling into space at some memory, sometime she got herself one of those new lives, no doubt.

Ian rests his chin atop Yevgeny's head. Ian's eyes track slowly around the room: Fiona nodding off in the chair, Liam demonstrating the raise-able ladder on his fire truck for Amanda, Mickey still indulging Carl and Debbie's chatter, and finally they land on Lip.

Lip meets his brother's gaze and tries to determine if Ian is feeling any enticement at Monica's words, any regret for his decision to pass up the opportunity for a whole different life, one without any of them. But as he closes his eyes and settles back to cuddle his kid, in his old home, surrounded by his family, Ian does not seem the slightest bit tempted.

* * *

 

That night finds them with a full house. Ian and Mickey take Yevgeny home, but the rest of the Gallaghers stay on, filling every bed. Frank and Monica have commandeered the double in Lip's room, so he finds himself squeezing into Ian's old bunk with Amanda.

As they elbow each other and smack against both the walls trying to get comfortable, she remarks, "This is so much better than the Hilton."

"Better company, at least."

"And entertainment. Told you Thanksgiving was meant to be a cage match."

"You're always right."

"Repeat that, please, until you stop forgetting it."

Lip smiles and tries to sit up a little. "You comfortable?" he asks.

"Hmm," She replies and lifts his arm. She wriggles her body up against his so that he is spooning her, "That's better."

"I like that," he replies, closing his eyes and laying his arm down over her.

"Don't get any ideas," she says, "This is just platonic cuddling."

"Sure. A little conservation of body heat among friends. Humans have been doin' it since time immemorial."

"You make a good caveman."

Lip grunts into the back of her neck, and she giggles. Then she sits up on her elbow with surprise. "Oh, hey."

Lip opens his eyes to find Liam standing by the bed. "Go to sleep, Li."

But Liam is hesitant.

"You wanna sleep with us?" Amanda asks.

"Yeah."

She holds up the blanket and waves him in. "Come on aboard."

There's a lot more scooting and rearranging until they end up as three spoons, big to little. Lip drapes his arm over both of them and buries his face in the back of Amanda's hair. She smells like expensive shampoo.

Liam wraps his hand around Lip's fingers, and Lip stays awake until that little hand goes slack with sleep.

As Lip allows himself to start drifting off, he holds the both of them in his arms and decides that family doesn't ever go away; it just keeps expanding. An accelerated universe. Or maybe it's a black hole. Either way, he closes his eyes and gives in to it.

* * *

 

Monica is gone by the time they wake. No one even comments on it; no one is surprised. And when Frank stumbles off to the Alibi to drown his sorrows over it, they all breathe a collective sigh of relief. Fiona turns the bolts behind him.

The rest of the morning passes kind of languorously, a rare day off for all of them.

Debbie is the only one who seems to have woken with any ambition. She chatters about Black Friday as she makes the first pot of coffee, taking advantage of her caffeine-starved captive audience. She doesn't believe in going out at an ungodly hour because that's exploitative of the workers, but she has no compunction about going midday to get her deals—that's just frugal good sense…Lip half-listens blearily, certain he has heard this same exact prattle every year since she was nine.

He comes back to life a little once he's got an actual cup of coffee. Debbie's detailing her plans for what stores to hit in what order, which ones accept coupons on top of the deals, which ones allow you to still stack your coupons…

Lip and Fiona exchange a look of amusement as Amanda takes a great interest in this and starts asking Debbie all sorts of questions. Lip is confident Amanda has never used a coupon in her whole life or ever set foot in Walmart, but that doesn't seem to matter so long as there is strategy to discuss. Then Debbie hauls out her meticulously organized coupon keeper to show off and the two of them get practically giddy discussing color-coded tabs and matching pens.

After Joaquin comes by to collect Debbie, the house gets a lot more quiet. Fiona, Lip and Amanda linger over their coffee, though they don't talk about much of any consequence. Then without even discussing it, the three of them start picking up the house. They put the dining room and kitchen back together, throw out all the accumulated garbage, even run the vacuum. It feels good to just do something mindlessly productive like that.

But around noon, the house becomes lively again because Ian and Mickey show up with Mandy in tow.

"We ain't getting' cheated out of leftovers," Mickey explains as he walks straight to the fridge.

"I paid a lot for that turkey," Ian adds as he ducks in beside him and starts pulling apart the wall of Tupperware Tetris.

The two of them are in remarkably good moods ("The power of gettin' laid again," Fiona whispers to Lip. "Multiple times," Mandy mutters, "Really fucking loudly."), but their cheer is kind of contagious. Everybody gets a little sillier, joking around in a way that haven't in a while. Lip is fascinated to see Mickey teasing Ian, and Ian not even minding when Fiona jumps right in to join Mickey's riff. Then Lip is roundly horrified as even Mandy cracks a smile at Amanda's apparently spot-on impression of Lip.

Fiona makes turkey sandwiches and Carl drags himself out of bed to join them. He consumes his sandwich sullenly with his eyes half-lidded then announces he's going out to hang with his girl.

"Use a fuckin' rubber," Mickey calls after him as he makes his way to the door.

Carl gives them all the finger and heads out.

"Did anybody even know he had a girlfriend?" Lip asks.

Ian and Fiona shake their heads, but Mickey sets down his sandwich in consternation. "He's been seein' her since the summer."

"Didja meet her?" Fiona asks.

"Couple times," Mickey shrugs, "She's all right."

Gradually, they settle into various groupings and activities. Ian and Mickey plop down on the couch to watch an MMA competition. Fiona and Amanda sprawl on the living room carpet and play with Liam.

Lip grabs a handful of Excedrin and a cup of coffee to take them with. His injuries are bothering him a lot more the second day. That always seems to be how it works, though.

He takes a seat at the dining room table since it's easier on his ribs than getting up and down from the couch. It does afford him a nice view of everyone else in the living room, which is fine. He's tired and sore and would rather observe than engage.

As he sips his coffee, however, he notices Mandy. She's made herself almost invisible, sunk into the armchair, though she is clearly an odd man out. There's no way she's joining Fiona and Amanda for preschool playtime. Ian and Mickey are no use either. They seem to think they're doing a good job of pretending to care about the competition on TV, but with all the scooting closer to each other and whispering and handsy movements, they're not fooling anyone. She mentioned earlier that she's gotta bus it back to Green Bay tonight, and this seems like kind of a sucky way to spend her last day here.

Lip manages to catch Mandy's eye. He inclines his head, inviting her over, and for a couple of seconds she looks disgusted by the prospect. But then she hauls herself out of the chair and walks over.

"What do you want?" She greets him sullenly.

"Nothin'. Just thought you looked…I dunno, lonely."

Mandy sneers, "I'm not lonely."

"Well," Lip struggles, annoyed that he's getting this kind of response for trying to do something nice, "Out of place, then."

"I don't need you to rescue me."

"Fine. Do whatever the fu—" He stops himself. This might be the last time he talks to her for a while. Forever, even.

He takes a breath and asks instead, "You want some coffee?"

She looks back at the living room then sighs. "I guess."

Lip is glad to get away from her glare as he escapes into the kitchen. He pours a cup then pauses, realizing he doesn't remember how she takes her coffee. He's not even sure if that was ever something he knew. It seems like it should've been.

He dithers far too long over this dilemma then grabs both the sugar and the milk along with her cup. If it turns out she doesn't take one or the other he can just pretend that he brought them for himself.

When he returns to the dining room, she's still just standing there, arms wrapped around herself awkwardly.

"Sit," he says, putting on what he hopes is a friendly smile, not a desperate one.

She does sit, to his great relief. Lip fusses too much as he sets the coffee in front of her, moving it to three different spots before he forces himself to leave it. He also makes too much of a show of placing the milk and sugar exactly halfway between them. Mandy watches him with her eyebrows raised.

"Drink," he tells her moronically.

"Are _you_ gonna sit?"

"Oh," Lip replies, realizing he's still standing, "Yeah."

She watches him grimace as he sits back down.

"Hurts, huh?" She asks.

He tries to ignore the shooting pain in his ribs and doesn't bother answering such an obvious question. This seems to amuse her, though, and Lip relaxes a little. He reaches for the milk even though his coffee is already room temperature.

"Since when do you take cream?" She asks as he pours, "That some weird college thing?"

"Calcium," he improvises, "Gotta mend my bones."

Mandy rolls her eyes and drinks her coffee black. He does remember that now. He remembers her telling him once that you couldn't ever trust that the milk hadn't gone bad at her house. That was never a problem at the Gallaghers', though. Fiona couldn't keep them in milk long enough for it to turn.

"What's the deal?" Lip asks, "How big of a nerd is this guy?"

"Who?"

"Oscar Mayer."

Her mouth tightens into a straight line.

"Ah," Lip confirms, "So, you're his bad girl fantasy. Probably spent his whole high school career jerkin' off to chicks like you. College too."

Mandy sighs and looks away.

"What?" He teases, "What's so special about him?"

"He never says shit like that."

Lip's smile fades. She's been spending too much time hanging out with humorless cheeseheads.

"Just sayin'," he mutters, "You didn't have to go all the way the fuck up there to find a boring dude like that. Plenty of them around here."

"That's not why I left. I didn't leave for any _guy_."

Lip retreats behind his coffee mug. He sips the cold, milky swill and waits for her to cool off. He greatly regrets having tried to talk with her. Best to let sleeping Milkoviches lie.

Mandy drinks her coffee too, but her attention strays from Lip. Instead she's watching Ian. He's whispering something to Mickey, but he breaks into a laugh before he finishes saying whatever it is.

"He hadn't gotten out of bed in days last time I saw him," Mandy remarks softly, her voice heavy with the memory.

Lip swallows and tries to distract himself from his own memories dumping sugar into his cup. He swirls it around then scoops up and lets drop several spoonfuls of unappealing liquid.

"I couldn't take one more thing turning to shit," she explains, "and I didn't wanna watch Mickey lose him again."

"Well, he didn't," Lip replies quietly.

Mandy takes another sip then turns her eyes back to him. "What was the wedding like?"

"What wedding?"

She doesn't answer and he looks up to find her sneer back in full force.

"Oh," he says and returns his eyes to his cup, "Wasn't any big deal. City Hall. No party or nothin'."

"Was it nice? I feel bad I missed that."

"Don't know. I didn't go."

He shifts uncomfortably under the weight of her disdain.

"Guess that was pretty shitty," he mumbles and adds, the idea just occurring to him, "Should probably do somethin' to make up for that sometime."

They both watch as Mickey shouts at the TV, letting someone inside the box know that they had it coming. Ian is smiling at this, like Mickey is Mr. Charm and Wit.

"I could throw a bachelor party," Lip shrugs, "Doubt either of 'em ever got somethin' like that."

"The fuck would you guys do?"

He runs a quick inventory of some options—strip club, bar crawl, casino—none of these seems particularly viable or advised.

"Isn't that, like, celebrating being single anyway?" Mandy continues, "Big dumbass goodbye to all the shit you're supposedly giving up?"

"Guess so," Lip admits.

He sits back in his chair and continues to puzzle over it. It's not just that he wants to make up for having been a dick more times than were probably strictly necessary. But it suddenly seems important that he engineer some kind of gesture, something big enough to get them all restarted on the right foot. This horrible year won't settle into its grave until they consecrate that shit. Problem is, there aren't too many sacred rituals in the Gallagher family repertoire.

"What about just a big-ass party? A wedding party?"

The thought is out of Lip's mouth before he has a chance to recognize how embarrassing a suggestion it is.

Mandy stares at him.

"No ceremony or crap like that," he rushes to add, trying to pull his dignity back with slippery hands, "Just a party for them, for whatever this fucked-up thing is they've got. Show them we all give a shit. Better late than never, right?"

Lip almost winces as he waits for Mandy to skewer him. She runs her finger around the rim of her coffee mug, biding her time. She's acting like she's actually considering the idea, but really she's just torturing him. Of all the people to let drop something like that in front of…

"Then I could come," she says, "I could be there for that, at least."

Now it's Lip's turn to stare at her. She looks genuinely pleased. His stupid big mouth has given her something, given them all something, maybe, and there's no taking it back now.

"Maybe they'd let me be a bridesmaid," Mandy jokes, "wear a stupid dress."

"Beard of honor."

"Shut up."

Mandy is smiling; it was always such an accomplishment to crack the code for that.

"Think you could pull it off?" She asks.

Lip sighs and runs a hand through his hair, starting to envision how much work this whole thing might be, "I don't know."

"Bet Amanda could do it."

"Shit, she'd fuckin' love that."

"She'd wanna turn it into some big gay TV wedding."

Lip chokes down his terrible coffee as he pictures this. Already now, he knows this ridiculous plan is going into effect, and his main job is going to be reining Amanda in. And Fiona. And Debbie. Christ. How on Earth did he just make this into reality?

"One thing?" Mandy advises him, "Don't invite your parents."

"Done."

They fall into companionable silence after this, both observing the action in the living room like it's a south side nature special.

Even though Lip's injuries are bothering him more today, some of the other stuff had let up a little when he woke this morning. His heart seems to be staying put, keeping up a reasonable pace. His brain feels less foggy too. It's not so great when he starts thinking about all the work that awaits him tomorrow, but if he just tries to keep busy with other thoughts, that mostly keeps it at bay.

After a while, he asks, "So, what's the plan? With school and Oscar Mayer and everything?"

"I don't know," Mandy says, "Just trying not screw it all up, I guess."

Lip nods and enjoys the delight on Fiona's face as Liam sings a song for Amanda that he learned at pre-school. Having so many people to give him attention really brings Liam out of his shell. Lip grows melancholy as it occurs to him that Liam's gonna be the only one of them to grow up in a house where hardly anyone is ever around.

He pushes that thought away and says, "Whatever you're doin', seems to be workin'."

"Took long enough. And I still do dumb shit sometimes."

"Like yesterday?" Lip laughs, "What the hell possessed you to throw a grenade in everything good you got up there by tellin' them where you were?"

"It was Thanksgiving," she explains, "I wanted my family."

"Lucy and Ricky over there are your family?"

She shrugs. "It's the one I've got."

Ian and Mickey are arguing over something silly. They keep play hitting each other and laughing. Ian looks more relaxed than he has in months. Right now, he looks happy.

At one point, Ian lies back on the couch, laughing so hard he can't move.

Mickey is laughing with him and looks up, still grinning. He catches Lip watching them, but Mickey's smile doesn't falter. Neither does Lip's.

* * *

 

Late in the day, Lip is having a smoke on the front steps, enjoying the unexpectedly warm afternoon and watching the snow melting. He glances up as Ian comes out and sits beside him.

"Thought you guys left a while ago," Lip says.

"They did," Ian replies, "Told them I was gonna stick around a little longer, finally fix that burner on the stove. Wanted to let Mickey have some time alone with her before she's gotta go back."

"Figured he'd be pretty eager to catch up with you too."

"I'm not going anywhere."

Lip gives him a pointed look, and Ian grants him half a smile.

"And anyway," Ian continues, "Debbie's watchin' Yev tonight so Svet can go out and we can get the place to ourselves. Mickey wants to talk more."

"Oh, yeah?"

"So much talking," Ian groans and rubs his eyes. "Think I've said more in the last twenty-four hours than I have in my whole life."

"The new and improved Ian Gallagher—now with voice feature."

Ian mutters something under his breath and bums Lip's smoke off of him.

While Ian hogs the cigarette, Lip sits back and surveys Wallace Street. He always thinks this place never changes, but it has. There's some new parking signs where there didn't used to be any, that condemned house next to the church has finally been torn down, and the LaPortes have fixed the porch rails that have been broken as far back as he can remember. It's weird how something can stay exactly the same for years and years, but then it changes and it takes forever to notice the difference.

Ian hold the cigarette out and Lip snatches it back.

"Can you believe that shit with Carl?" Ian asks.

Lip chokes on his inhale and pats his chest. "No," he coughs, "And I shoulda seen it comin'. He was askin' me about that stuff with Karen the other night. We sure gave him some stellar role models."

"Fiona's gonna be gray before she's thirty."

"Think she kinda loves it."

Ian falls quiet, and it's clear he's waiting to ask something. Lip takes another drag, giving him time. The urge to nudge him along is powerful, but Lip fights it. The family fixer is still retired. Now is the age of Zen Lip who just allows things to happen, goes with the flow, passes no judgment. How long this age will last, though, is debatable. Zen Lip is already getting on Regular Lip's nerves with all this wishy-washy patchouli bullshit.

"I wanted to ask you something," Ian says.

"That's a good start."

"I'm gonna talk to Mickey about it tonight, and Fiona too, but I just…I wanted to run it by you, see if it's stupid."

Lip covers up his smile (see ya, Zen Lip) by bringing the cigarette to his mouth. "Go for it."

Ian gazes over at the LaPortes' new porch railings as he speaks. "Well, you know, we're gonna sell the house."

Lip's heart skips a beat before he realizes that Ian is talking about the Milkovich house. "That's right."

"Mickey was planning to get an apartment, or something, but I think all those new expenses are kind of risky when he's buying into the business and just starting up too, you know? Does that sound right?"

"Well, yeah. That's a good thing to be thinkin' about. You got somethin' else in mind, though?"

Ian bows his head and rubs the back of neck nervously. "I was thinking maybe we could move in here."

"What?"

"Well, we could pay something and help Fiona out with the bills, and it'd still be cheaper for us than paying rent on some apartment. And she'd have more people to keep an eye on things, help her out with Liam. We'd have more people to help with Yev…"

Lip blinks as he takes this in. "Yev and Svetlana would come too? Where the hell would you all sleep?"

"Svet and Yev could have your old room."

"What and you two take the bunk beds?"

"No," Ian laughs a little at this image. "I was thinking we could maybe fix up the basement. I mean, it's not forever. And it hasn't smelled like meth since it flooded."

"Jesus," Lip mutters.

"It's a dumb idea, huh?"

"No."

"Really?"

"Talk to Fiona about it first, but I don't think she's gonna hate the idea either."

Ian sits up a bit more confidently.

"Thought you couldn't stand bein' around everybody, though," Lip can't help but point out as he kicks a little dirt over Zen Lip's grave.

"Yeah, I know." Ian rubs the back of his neck again, and says, "But if I'm not gonna get away from it, guess I just…I'm gonna try and look at it like exposure therapy, or something."

"Trial by fire," Lip nods. This sounds a lot more like the Ian he always knew.

"So, what happens to everybody else at the house?" Lip asks.

"The girls'll go somewhere else. Shutting down the rub 'n tug anyway. And Iggy and Joey don't want anything to do with the business. They just want their cut of the house then they're going off on their own."

"You gonna quit your job? Go work with Mickey and Svetlana?"

"No. I don't think I'd like that kind of work."

"Good. You guys wanna diversify your income streams, anyway. Especially right now."

"That's what Mickey said too."

Zen Lip would let that pass, but Regular Lip ashes his cigarette and asks, "Mickey thinks you'd make a good paramedic too, huh?"

Ian sighs. "He does. But that's not why I'm thinking about doing it now."

"Oh, sure. When I suggested it—when it was my idea—you didn't want anything to do with it. But, oh, Mickey comes back and says 'Hey, I got this brilliant idea, don't even need to any research on it—"

"They saved your life," Ian blurts out.

"What're you talkin' about?"

"The paramedics. I was in the ambulance. I saw them do it."

Lip lowers his cigarette and looks at his brother. Ian's eyes are far away, his expression stricken.

"You were dead," Ian whispers, "For a second you were. I saw it on the monitor. I heard it, just like on TV. But then they brought you back to life. I couldn't do it, but they could."

He knots his hands together, still staring far away, but his breath has the slightest hitch to it. Ian is scared, even just remembering it. The idea of losing his brother actually means something to him. Ian gives a shit about Lip.

"Did I look dead?"

"Huh?" Ian turns back to him, eyebrows furrowed.

"What did I look like when I was dead?"

"Shit," Ian bows his head, "I dunno. Same as you did when you were comatose."

Lip files away the fact that he has been resurrected from the dead ('Lazarus Lip' sounds far more badass than 'Zen Lip') for future investigation. Instead he just watches his brother, his stronger, dumber, sweeter twin who loves him and wanted to be able to save him. Now that kid's after the next best thing: working on becoming the kind of person who could. It's all so _Ian_.

Lip smiles. "So, I did kinda lead you to it after all."

Ian huffs a laugh of surprise. "Yeah, sure," he says, "I owe everything to you. You happy?"

"Fine. Just make sure you tell Mickey that idea was one of mine, all right? I thought of it first."

"Should just stamp a copyright on my whole life."

"I should."

Ian steals the cigarette back. He takes a puff while looking out at the street and asks, "See the LaPortes finally fixed that railing?"

"Yeah."

"Eleven fucking years, then one day they just get around to it."

Lip shrugs as he accepts the cigarette back. They sit for a while, the only sound the snow melt running down inside the gutters and the Rubios' beagle baying ceaselessly a few yards over. That dog never shuts up.

"You remember that time we went to the lake?" Ian asks.

"What lake?"

"The _lake_."

"Lake Michigan?"

"What other lake have we ever been to?"

"I don't know. And we've been there a hundred times. Which one of those am I supposed to just remember?"

"The first time. When you took me."

"Oh. Yeah."

Lip smiles a little. He can still see Ian holding his hand that day on the bus, when he had that green corduroy coat. They must've been five and six or something. Ian's hair was bright red then. Strangers used to always remark on it.

"Fiona was so mad you went that far," Ian says.

Lip had planned the trip so carefully, figuring out the route on the CTA map, the first time he'd ever gone anywhere that required a transfer. And it'd still been a bit of a hike once they got there, getting to the lakefront. At least it seemed that way on their short legs.

"I kept hearin' about it," Lip recalls, "readin' that we had this massive body of water right in our own damn city. I couldn't believe how big they said it was. I needed to see it in person, prove they weren't just makin' it up."

"You never trusted _anyone_."

Lip can't argue with this.

"Why'd you take me, though?" Ian asks, "That's what really pissed her off. I was never supposed to leave the block without her."

"Needed a witness to verify, I suppose. Plus, if it was as impressive as they claimed, I wanted you to see it too. Didn't seem right not to share."

"I thought it was the ocean," Ian says, smiling at his naiveté.

"It looked like it could've been."

The water had stretched before them as far as anyone could see, even two little boys from the Yards. There might as well have not been any more world beyond it. They'd reached the edge of everything.

"I used to tell people all the time you took me to the ocean once," Ian marvels, "I said that for years before I realized that couldn't be right."

Lip had been capable of anything in Ian's eyes back then. Maybe Monica was right, and Lip was a good brother. At least some of the time. At least he tried.

There were so many cigarette butts in the sand of the lakeshore. Whiskey bottles. Condoms. Even still, it was extraordinary. Neither of them could speak, and they barely said anything at all riding the buses back. Lip had taken Ian to the end of the Earth and concluded it would do.

"Sometimes I still even forget," Ian says, "Like, just for a second I still think I've been to the ocean before I remember that's not right."

Lip likes this idea. He couldn't give Ian the ocean, but he still managed to give him a couple little drops to carry in his pocket. That's not so small a trick to pull off.

They both look out at the lake now, lapping right up to the base of the porch steps. Wallace Street has disappeared, taking the new parking signs and the LaPortes' rails with it. The future and the past are laid out together before them, so vast you can't see from one side to the other with the naked eye. You just have to trust that another shore is out there, and you'll reach it at some point if you dive in.

"What made you think of all that?" Lip asks, tossing his cigarette butt into the water.

"Mickey said something about the lake this morning when I was feeding Yev, and it made me think about how cool it's gonna be when Yev gets to see it for the first time. I wanna be here to take him."

Lip's got another one of those lumps in his throat for some reason. He swallows with effort and asks, "Can I come too?"

"You have to," Ian replies, "How would any of us figure out the bus route without you? Need a genius to make any sense of those maps."

Another stupid lump. Lip swallows it, even as he smiles.

Then Ian stands and stretches. Lake Michigan dries up.

"Guess I should actually start working on that burner."

"Need any help?"

"Nah, think I got it."

"Yeah," Lip says, "I gotta leave soon anyway. Amanda wants to see some movie she heard about."

"Should take her out to dinner after, make up for that shitshow last night."

"Think she actually liked it."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Chick's got weird taste."

As Ian opens up the storm door to go in, Lip tilts his head back to look at him.

"How you doin'?" Lip asks.

Ian hesitates. Then he responds, "Better than yesterday."

"Can't ask for more than that."

Lip returns his eyes to the street, but behind him, Ian's still standing. He wants to ask Lip something again. Lip waits.

"How _you_ doing?" Ian asks.

Lip stretches his legs out down the stairs and considers the answer to this question.

"I'll be fine," he decides.

"Can't ask for more than that."

And Ian is gone, the storm door slapping closed behind him.

Lip sits alone. He tries to think about where he might take Amanda out tonight. She does like to slum it, and he's an ideal host for that sort of thing. He pages through his knowledge of skeezy diners and back rooms, but none of it is really sticking. Too many faded half-images and details from the past keep crying out from the periphery. So he gives in to their wails.

He starts removing the boxes from his brain, laying them out in front of him one by one. First come the safety-deposit lockboxes, Karen and Mandy and the ghost of Lip's baby that never really was. Monica's got one of those boxes too and Frank and the kids who made Lip's life hell that one month he got sent alone to the foster care group home. He sets these down with a metallic clink.

He lays all of the rest of the boxes beside these. Some aren't safety-deposit boxes, some are cardboard shoeboxes, some are liquor crates; some are dented and beat up, some look almost new; some are bursting at the seams, but some are only slightly full. Ian, Fiona, Debbie, Carl, Liam, Kev and Veronica, Sheila Jackson, Mickey Milkovich, Carl Sagan, Kuz…Some are just places: the Cavalier, all those foster homes, the house they stole from Aunt Ginger, the van, the roof, the library, Polytech…

Lip sets the newest box beside them all. It's hardly filled and the permanent marker is still a bit wet on the label where surely she has written her own name so neatly for him: _Amanda_.

Then he sits back and surveys it all, this accumulated pile of junk that makes up nineteen years on this pale blue dot. It doesn't look like much outside the close confines of his skull. None of it looks so scary either under the bright afternoon sunlight. They're just people, just places, just memories.

With his mind clearer than it has been in ages, Lip appraises the lot of it. He starts to recognize patterns between the boxes, realizes that he could rearrange all these people and places a thousand times and reveal countless other patterns. He could drive himself to madness trying to map it all out and solve for the one correct solution.

His heart speeds up just thinking about this, so he stops. He stops looking for the patterns and instead picks up one of the less intimidating boxes and sifts aimlessly through its contents. It's Fiona's box. He finds a fossilized chunk of one of the lunches she made him for school, comes across the cool washcloth she used to put on his head when he was sick, pours over the GED scores she got just for him.

He puts her box back and picks up Ian's, so heavy with content he has to balance it partially on the step. Lip slides off the lid and takes out just a few little items: some action figures, a glass bowl, that kit bag stenciled with the name of Private Lip Gallagher. Then he pauses over a remnant, a torn-up piece of velour upholstery. He runs his finger through the nap, watching the line this makes, standing out from the rest. He looks at that mark on this scrap of fabric and thinks about the stories they used to tell. Even wiping them away to write fresh ones didn't make the old ones disappear. He still remembers them all.

Lip replaces the top on Ian's box gently and returns it to the pile.

He slides all of the boxes back into the cold storage of his mind. He does this a little less carefully than usual; he doesn't worry about whom he's stacking next to whom; he doesn't put all the lids on so tightly and doesn't bother with any locks.

Once everything is returned to where it belongs, it's just Lip on the porch still listening to the snow melt in the gutters and the Rubios' goddamn dog. He feels emptier, having taken all that out and then put it back. It's not a bad empty, though, not a loss. It's more just recognition that he's got a little more room to breathe up there than he thought. His hard drive is nowhere near capacity.

He looks down at the porch steps, every sliver of their old paint committed to memory, and realizes that he's also uncovered one last object underneath all the boxes he never noticed was there.

Lip always wanted a time machine. More than anything, that has been his desperate geek boy fantasy. But now it turns out he's had a fucking time machine right here with him all along. It goes forward and backward, no plutonium or flux capacitors needed. It operates perfectly at will, just never at the rate he wants it to or landing quite where he intended.

He smiles as he runs his hand over the steering wheel and sets the dial spinning wherever it may land. Then he climbs to his feet and goes inside to fetch Amanda. There are new memories out there, and he'll be damned if he doesn't find every last one.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Irish Twins Fanmix](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2638157) by [EudociaCovert](https://archiveofourown.org/users/EudociaCovert/pseuds/EudociaCovert)




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